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^p  ?an  l^ap 


ALL  IN  IT:    K  I  CARRIES  ON. 

PIP:   A  ROMANCE  OF  YOUTH. 

GETTING  TOGETHER. 

THE  FIRST  HUNDRED  THOUSAND. 

SCALLY  :  THE  STORY  OF  A  PERFECT  GENTLE- 
MAN.    With  Frontispiece. 
A  KNISHT  ON  WHEELS. 

HAPPY-«0-LUCKY.   lUustrated by Charlet E.  Brwi. 
A  SAFETY  MATCH.    With  froBta|neo«. 
A  MAN'S  MAN.    With  frontiacnece. 
THE  RIGHT  STUFF.    With  fronti4>iMa. 

BOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPAMV 
Boston  and  Nkw  Yobs 


ALL  IN  IT 

"K(l)"  Carries  On 


TO 
ALL  SECOND  LIEUTENANTS 

AND  IN  PARTICULAR  TO 
THE  MEMORY  OF 

ONE  SECOND  LIEUTENANT 


ALL  IN  IT 

"K(l)" 

Carries  On 


BY 

lAK  HAY 


Boston  and  New  York 

Houghton  Mifflin  Company 

i^})t  lattet^itie  pte^^  Cambridge 


COPYRISHT,   1917,   BY  IAN  HAY   BKITH 
ALL  RIGHTS   RSSBRVKD 

Publitked  Nov*mh€r  tqrj 


College 
Library 


AUTHOR'S  NOTE 


The  First  Hundred  Thousand  closed  with  the 
Battle  of  Loos.  The  present  narrative  follows 
certain  friends  of  ours  from  the  scene  of  that 
costly  but  valuable  experience,  through  a  win- 
ter campaign  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Ypres  and 
Ploegsteert,  to  profitable  participation  in  the  Bat- 
tle of  the  Somme. 

Much  has  happened  since  then.  The  initiative 
has  passed  once  and  for  all  into  our  hands;  so  has 
the  command  of  the  air.  Russia  has  been  reborn, 
and,  like  most  healthy  infants,  is  passing  through 
an  uproarious  period  of  teething  trouble;  but  now 
America  has  stepped  in,  and  promises  to  do  more 
than  redress  the  balance.  All  along  the  Western 
Front  we  have  begun  to  move  forward,  without 
haste  or  flurry,  but  in  such  wise  that  during  the 
past  twelve  months  no  position,  once  fairly  cap- 
tured and  consolidated,  has  ever  been  regained 
by  the  enemy.  To-day  you  can  stand  upon  cer- 
tain recently  won  eminences  —  Wytchaete  Ridge, 
Messines  Ridge,  Vimy  Ridge,  and  Monchy  — 
looking  down  into  the  enemy's  lines,  and  looking 
forward  to  the  territory  which  yet  remains  to  be 
restored  to  France. 

You  can  also  look  back  —  not  merely  from 
these  ridges,  but  from  certain  moral  ridges  as 
well  —  over  the  ground  which  has  been  success- 
fully traversed,  and  you  can  marvel  for  the  hun- 


f^arta^A 


viii  AUTHOR'S  NOTE 

dredth  time,  not  that  the  thing  was  well  or 
badly  done,  but  that  it  was  ever  done  at  all. 

But  while  this  narrative  was  being  written, 
none  of  these  things  had  happened.  We  were 
still  struggling  uphill,  with  inadequate  resources. 
So,  since  the  incidents  of  the  story  were  set  down, 
in  the  main,  as  they  occurred  and  when  they  oc- 
curred, the  reader  will  find  very  little  perspective, 
a  great  deal  of  the  mood  of  the  moment,  and  none 
at  all  of  that  profound  wisdom  which  comes  after 
the  event.  For  the  latter  he  must  look  home  — 
to  the  lower  walks  of  joumahsm  and  the  back 
benches  of  the  House  of  Commons. 

It  is  not  proposed  to  carry  this  story  to  a  third 
volume.  The  First  Hundred  Thousand,  as  such, 
are  no  more.  Like  the  "  Old  Contemptibles,"  they 
are  now  merged  in  a  greater  and  more  victori- 
ous army  —  in  an  armed  nation,  in  fact.  And, 
as  Sergeant  Mucklewame  once  observed  to  me, 
"There's  no  that  mony  of  us  left  now,  onyways." 
So  with  all  reverence  —  remembering  how,  when 
they  were  needed  most,  these  men  did  not  pause 
to  reason  why  or  count  the  cost,  but  came  at 
onee  —  we  bid  them  good-bye. 


CONTENTS 

I.  WINTER  QUARTERS 1 

11.  SHELL  OUT! 18 

III.  WINTER  SPORTS  :  VARIOUS 36 

IV.  THE  PUSH  THAT   FAILED 62 

V.  UNBENDING  THE  BOW 70 

VI.  YE  MERRIE  BUZZERS 95 

VII.  PASTURES  NEW 119 

VIII.  "THE   NON-COMBATANT" 137 

IX.  TUNING   UP 169 

X.  FULL  CHORUS 186 

XI.  THE  LAST   SOLO 197 

XII.  RECESSIONAL 212 

XIII.  "TWO     OLD     SOLDIERS,     BROKEN     IN     THE 

WARS" 223 


All  In  It 

«K  (1)  "  Carries  On 
I 

WINTER   QUARTERS 
I 

It  is  late  autumn  in  1915,  and  we  are  getting 
into  our  stride  again.  Two  months  ago  we  trudged 
into  Bethune,  gaunt,  dirty,  soaked  to  the  skin, 
and  reduced  to  a  comparative  handful.  None  of 
us  had  had  his  clothes  ofif  for  a  week.  Our  ankle- 
puttees  had  long  dropped  to  pieces,  and  our  hose- 
tops,  having  worked  under  the  soles  of  our  boots, 
had  been  cut  away  and  discarded.  The  result  was 
a  bare  and  mud-splashed  expanse  of  leg  from  boot 
to  kilt,  except  in  the  case  of  the  enterprising  few 
who  had  devised  artistic  spat-puttees  out  of  an  old 
sandbag.  Our  headgear  consisted  in  a  few  cases 
of  the  regulation  Balmoral  bonnet,  usually  minus 
''toorie"  and  badge;  in  a  few  more,  of  the  battered 
remains  of  a  gas  helmet;  and  in  the  great  majority, 
of  a  woollen  cap-comforter.  We  were  bearded  like 
that  incomparable  fighter,  the  poilu,  and  we  were 
separated  by  an  abyss  of  years,  so  oiu*  stomachs 
told  us,  from  our  last  square  meal. 

But  we  were  wonderfully  placid  about  it  all. 
Our  regimental  pipers,  who  had  come  out  to  play 


2  ALL  IN  IT 

us  in,  were  making  what  the  Psalmist  calls  "a 
joyful  noise "  in  front;  and  behind  us  lay  the  recol- 
lection of  a  battle,  still  raging,  in  which  we  had 
struck  the  first  blow,  and  borne  our  full  share  for 
three  days  and  nights.  Moreover,  our  particular 
blow  had  bitten  deeper  into  the  enemy's  line  than 
any  other  blow  in  the  neighbourhood.  And,  most 
blessed  thought  of  all,  everything  was  over,  and 
we  were  going  back  to  rest.  For  the  moment,  the 
memory  of  the  sights  we  had  seen,  and  the  tax  we 
had  levied  upon  our  bodies  and  souls,  together 
with  the  picture  of  the  countless  sturdy  lads 
whom  we  had  left  lying  beneath  the  sinister  shade 
of  Fosse  Eight,  were  beneficently  obscured  by  the 
prospect  of  food,  sleep,  and  comparative  clean- 
Hness. 

After  restoring  ourselves  to  our  personal  com- 
forts, we  should  doubtless  go  somewhere  to  refit. 
Drafts  were  already  waiting  at  the  Base  to  fill  up 
the  great  gaps  in  our  ranks.  Our  companies  hav- 
ing been  brought  up  to  strength,  a  spate  of  pro- 
motions would  follow.  We  had  no  Colonel,  and 
only  one  Company  Commander.  Subalterns  — 
what  was  left  of  them  —  would  come  by  their 
own.  N.C.O.'s,  again,  would  have  to  be  created 
by  the  dozen.  While  all  this  was  going  on,  and  the 
old  names  were  being  weeded  out  of  the  muster- 
roll  to  make  way  for  the  new,  the  Quartermaster 
would  be  drawing  fresh  equipment  —  packs, 
mess-tins,  water-bottles,  and  the  hundred  odd- 
ments which  always  go  astray  in  times  of  stress. 
There  would  be  a  good  deal  of  dialogue  of  this 
sort:  — 


WINTER  QUARTERS  8 

"Private  M'Sumph,  I  see  you  are  down  for  a 
new  pack.  Where  is  your  old  one?" 

"Blawn  off  ma  back,  sirr!" 

"Where  are  your  puttees?" 

"Blawn  off  ma  feet,  sirr!" 

"Where  is  your  iron  ration?" 

"Blawn  oot  o'  ma  pooch,  sirr!" 

"Where  is  your  head?" 

"Blawn  —  I  beg  your  pardon,  sirr!"  —  fol- 
lowed by  generous  reissues  all  round. 

After  a  month  or  so  our  beloved  regiment,  once 
more  at  full  strength,  with  traditions  and  morale 
annealed  by  the  fires  of  experience,  would  take  its 
rightful  place  in  the  forefront  of  "K  (1)." 

Such  was  the  immediate  future,  as  it  presented 
itself  to  the  wearied  but  optimistic  brain  of  Lieu- 
tenant Bobby  Little.  He  communicated  his  the- 
ories to  Captain  Wagstaffe. 

"I  wonder!"  replied  that  experienced  officer. 

n 

The  chief  penalty  of  doing  a  job  of  work  well  is 
that  you  are  promptly  put  on  to  another.  This  is 
supposed  to  be  a  comphment. 

The  authorities  allowed  us  exactly  two  days' 
rest,  and  then  packed  us  off  by  train,  with  the  new 
draft,  to  a  particularly  hot  sector  of  the  trench- 
line  in  Belgium  —  there  to  carry  on  with  the  oper- 
ation known  in  nautical  circles  as  "executing 
repairs  while  under  steam." 

Well,  we  have  been  in  Belgium  for  two  months 
now,  and,  as  already  stated,  are  getting  into  our 
stride  again. 


4  :  ALL  IN  IT  ' 

There  are  new  faces  everywhere,  and  some  of  the 
old  faces  are  not  quite  the  same.  They  are  finer- 
drawn;  one  is  conscious  of  less  chubbiness  all 
round.  War  is  a  great  maturing  agent.  There  is, 
moreover,  an  air  of  seasoned  authority  abroad. 
Many  who  were  second  Heutenants  or  lance  cor- 
porals three  months  ago  are  now  commanding 
companies  and  platoons.  Bobby  Little  is  in  com- 
mand of  "A"  Company:  if  he  can  cling  to  this 
precarious  eminence  for  thirty  days  —  that  is,  if 
no  one  is  sent  out  to  supersede  him  —  he  becomes 
an  "automatic"  captain,  aged  twenty!  Major 
Kemp  commands  the  battahon;  Wagstaffe  is  his 
senior  major.  Ayhng  has  departed  from  our 
midst,  and  rumour  says  that  he  is  leading  a  sort  of 
Pooh  Bah  existence  at  Brigade  Headquarters. 

There  are  sad  gaps  among  our  old  friends  of  the 
rank  and  file.  Ogg  and  Hogg,  M'Slattery  and 
M'Ostrich,  have  gone  to  the  happy  hunting- 
grounds.  Private  Dunshie,  the  General  Speciahst 
(who,  you  may  remember,  found  his  true  voca- 
tion, after  many  days,  as  battahon  chiropodist),  is 
reported  "missing."  But  his  comrades  are  posi- 
tive that  no  harm  has  befallen  him.  Long  experi- 
ence has  convinced  them  that  in  the  art  of  landing 
on  his  feet  their  departed  friend  has  no  equal. 

"I  doot  he'll  be  a  prisoner,"  suggests  the  faith- 
ful Mucklewame  to  the  Transport  Sergeant. 

"Aye,"  assents  the  Transport  Sergeant  bit- 
terly; "he'll  be  a  prisoner.  No  doot  he'll  try  to 
pass  himself  ofif  as  an  officer,  for  to  get  better 
quarters!" 

(The  Transport  Sergeant,  in  whose  memory 


^WINTER  QUARTERS  5 

certain  enormities  of  Dunshie  had  rankled  ever 
since  that  versatile  individual  had  abandoned  the 
veterinary  profession,  owing  to  the  most  excus- 
able intervention  of  a  pack-mule's  off  hind  leg, 
was  not  far  out  in  his  surmise,  as  subsequent  his- 
tory may  some  day  reveal.  But  the  telhng  of  that 
story  is  still  a  long  way  off.) 

Company  Sergeant-Major  Pumpherston  is  now 
Sergeant-Major  of  the  Battahon.  Mucklewame  is 
a  corporal  in  his  old  company.  Private  Tosh  was 
"offered  a  stripe,"  too,  but  declined,  because  the 
invitation  did  not  include  Private  Cosh,  who, 
owing  to  a  regrettable  lapse  not  unconnected  with 
the  rum  ration,  had  been  omitted  from  the  Hon- 
ours' List.  Consequently  these  two  grim  veterans 
remain  undecorated,  but  they  are  objects  of  great 
veneration  among  the  recently  joined  for  all  that. 

So  you  see  us  once  more  in  harness,  falling  into 
the  collar  with  energy,  if  not  fervour.  We  no 
longer  regard  War  with  the  least  enthusiasm:  we 
have  seen  It,  face  to  face.  Our  sole  purpose  now  is 
to  screw  our  sturdy  followers  up  to  the  requisite 
pitch  of  efficiency,  and  keep  them  remorselessly 
at  that  standard  until  the  dawn  of  triumphant 
and  abiding  peace. 

We  have  one  thing  upon  our  side  —  youth. 

"Most  of  our  regular  senior  officers  are  gone, 
sir,"  remarked  Colonel  Kemp  one  day  to  the 
Brigadier  —  "dead,  or  wounded,  or  promoted  to 
other  commands;  and  I  have  something  hke 
twenty  new  subalterns.  When  you  subtract  a  cen- 
tenarian like  myself,  the  average  age  of  our  Bat- 
tahon Mess,  including  Company  Commanders, 


6  ALL  IN  IT 

works  out  at  something  under  twenty-three.  But 
I  am  not  exchanging  any  of  them,  thanks!" 

in 

Trench-Ufe  in  Belgium  is  an  entirely  different 
proposition  from  trench-life  in  France.  The  undu- 
lating country  in  which  we  now  find  ourselves 
offers  an  infinite  choice  of  unpleasant  siu'round- 
ings. 

Down  south,  Vermelles  way,  the  trenches 
stretch  in  a  comparatively  straight  Une  for  miles, 
facing  one  another  squarely,  and  giving  httle  op- 
portunity for  tactical  enterprise.  The  infantry 
blaze  and  sputter  at  one  another  in  front;  the  guns 
roar  behind;  and  that  is  all  there  is  to  be  said 
about  it.  But  here,  the  line  follows  the  curve  of 
each  little  hill.  At  one  place  you  are  in  a  salient, 
in  a  trench  which  nms  round  the  face  of  a  bulging 
"knowe"  —  a  tempting  target  for  shells  of  every 
kind.  A  few  hundred  yards  farther  north,  or 
south,  the  ground  is  much  lower,  and  the  trench- 
line  runs  back  into  a  re-entrant,  seeking  for  a  posi- 
tion which  shall  not  be  commanded  from  higher 
ground  in  front. 

The  line  is  pierced  at  intervals  by  railway- 
cuttings,  which  have  to  be  barricaded,  and  canals, 
which  require  special  defences.  Almost  every  spot 
in  either  line  is  overlooked  by  some  adjacent  ridge, 
or  enfiladed  from  some  adjacent  trench.  It  is  dis- 
concerting for  a  methodical  young  officer,  after 
cautiously  scrutinising  the  trench  upon  his  front 
through  a  periscope,  to  find  that  the  entire  per- 
formance has  been  visible  (and  his  entire  person 


WINTER  QUARTERS  7 

exposed)  to  the  view  of  a  Boche  trench  situated 
on  a  hill-slope  upon  his  immediate  left. 

And  our  trench-line,  with  its  infinity  of  salients 
and  re-entrants,  is  itself  only  part  of  the  great 
salient  of  "Wipers."  You  may  imagine  with  what 
methodical  solemnity  the  Boche  ''crumps"  the 
interior  of  that  constricted  area.  Looking  round 
at  night,  when  the  star-shells  float  up  over  the 
skyline,  one  could  almost  imagine  one's  self  inside 
a  complete  circle,  instead  of  a  horseshoe. 

The  machine-gunners  of  both  sides  are  ex- 
tremely busy.  In  the  plains  of  France  the  pursuit 
of  their  nefarious  trade  was  practically  limited  to 
front-hne  work.  When  they  did  venture  to  indulge 
in  what  they  called  "overhead"  fire,  their  friends 
in  the  forefront  used  to  summon  them  after  the 
performance,  and  reproachfully  point  out  sundry 
ominous  rents  and  abrasions  in  the  back  of  the 
front-line  parapet.  But  here  they  can  withdraw 
behind  a  convenient  ridge,  and  strafe  Boches  a 
mile  and  a  half  away,  without  causing  any  com- 
plaints. Needless  to  say,  Brother  Boche  is  not 
backward  in  returning  the  compliment.  He  has 
one  gun  in  particular  which  never  tires  in  its  ef- 
forts to  rouse  us  from  ennui.  It  must  be  a  long 
way  off,  for  we  can  only  just  hear  the  report. 
Moreover,  its  contribution  to  our  liveliness,  when 
it  does  arrive,  falls  at  an  extremely  steep  angle  — 
so  steep,  indeed,  that  it  only  just  clears  the  back 
of  the  embankment  under  which  we  five,  and  falls 
upon  the  very  doorsteps  of  the  dug-outs  with 
which  that  sanctuary  is  honeycombed. 

This  invigorating  shower  is  turned  on  regularly 


8  ALL  IN  IT 

for  ten  minutes,  at  three,  six,  nine,  and  twelve 
o'clock  daily.  (Methodical  regularity  is  the 
most  loveable  feature  of  the  German  character.) 
Its  area  of  activity  includes  our  tiny  but,  alas! 
steadily  growing  cemetery.  One  evening  a  regi- 
ment which  had  recently  "taken  over"  selected 
6  P.M.  as  a  suitable  hour  for  a  funeral.  The  result 
was  a  grimly  humorous  spectacle  —  the  mourn- 
ers, including  the  Commanding  Officer  and  of- 
ficiating clergy,  taking  hasty  cover  in  a  truly 
novel  trench;  while  the  central  figure  of  the  ob- 
sequies, sublimely  indiff"erent  to  the  Hun  and 
all  his  frightfulness,  lay  on  the  grass  outside, 
calm  and  impassive  amid  the  whispering  hail  of 
bullets. 

As  for  the  trenches  themselves  —  well,  in  the 
first  place,  there  is  no  settled  trench-line  at  all. 
The  Salient  has  been  a  battlefield  for  twelve 
months  past.  No  one  has  ever  had  the  time,  or 
opportunity,  to  construct  anything  in  the  shape 
of  permanent  defences.  A  shallow  trench,  trinmied 
with  an  untidy  parapet  of  sandbags,  and  there  is 
your  stronghold!  For  rest  and  meditation,  a  hole 
in  the  ground,  half-full  of  water  and  roofed  with 
a  sheet  of  galvanised  iron;  or  possibly  a  glorified 
rabbit-burrow  in  a  canal-bank.  These  things,  as 
a  modern  poet  has  observed,  are  all  right  in  the 
summer-time.  But  winter  here  is  a  disintegrating 
season.  It  rains  heavily  for,  say,  three  days.  Two 
days  of  sharp  frost  succeed,  and  the  rain-soaked 
earth  is  reduced  to  the  necessary  degree  of  friabil- 
ity. Another  day's  rain,  and  trenches  and  dug- 
outs come  sliding  down  like  melted  butter.  Even 


WINTER  QUARTERS  9 

if  you  revet  the  trenches,  it  is  not  easy  to  drain 
them.  The  only  difference  is  that  if  your  hne  is 
situated  on  the  forward  slope  of  a  hill  the  support 
trench  drains  into  the  firing-trench;  if  they  are  on 
the  reverse  slope,  the  firing-trench  drains  into  the 
support  trench.  Our  indefatigable  friends  Box 
and  Cox,  of  the  Royal  Engineers,  assisted  by 
sturdy  Pioneer  Battalions,  labour  like  heroes ;  but 
the  utmost  they  can  achieve,  in  a  low-ljdng  coun- 
try like  this,  is  to  divert  as  much  water  as  possible 
into  some  other  Brigade's  area.  Which  they  do, 
right  cunningly. 

In  addition  to  the  Boche,  we  wage  continuous 
warfare  with  the  elements,  and  the  various  de- 
partments of  Olympus  render  us  characteristic 
assistance.  The  Round  Game  Department  has 
issued  a  set  of  rules  for  the  correct  method  of 
massaging  and  greasing  the  feet.  (Major  Wag- 
staff  e  refers  to  this  as,  "  Sole-slapping;  or  What  to 
do  in  the  Children's  Hour;  complete  in  Twelve 
Fortnightly  Parts.")  The  Fairy  Godmother  De- 
partment presents  us  with  what  the  Quartermas- 
ter describes  as  "Boots,  gum,  thigh";  and  there 
has  also  been  an  issue  of  so-called  fur  jackets,  in 
which  the  Practical  Joke  Department  has  plainly 
taken  a  hand.  Most  of  these  garments  appear  to 
have  been  contributed  by  animals  unknown  to 
zoology,  or  more  probably  by  a  syndicate  thereof. 
Corporal  Mucklewame's  costume  gives  him  the 
appearance  of  a  St.  Bernard  dog  with  Astrakhan 
fore  legs.  Sergeant  Carfrae  is  attired  in  what 
looks  like  the  skin  of  Nana,  the  dog-nurse  in 
"  Peter  Pan. "  Private  Nigg,  an  imdersized  youth 


10  ALL  IN  IT 

of  bashful  disposition,  creeps  forlornly  about  his 
duties  disguised  as  an  imitation  leopard.  As  he 
passes  by,  facetious  persons  pull  what  is  left  of  his 
tail.  Private  Tosh,  on  being  confronted  with  his 
winter  trousseau,  observed  bitterly  — 

"  I  jined  the  Airmy  for  tae  be  a  sojer ;  but  I  doot 
they  must  have  pit  me  doon  as  a  mountain  goat! " 

Still,  though  our  variegated  pelts  cause  us  to  re- 
semble an  unsuccessful  compromise  between  Esau 
and  an  Eskimo,  they  keep  our  bodies  warm.  We 
wish  we  could  say  the  same  for  our  feet.  On  good 
days  we  stand  ankle-deep;  on  bad,  we  are  occa- 
sionally over  the  knees.  Thrice  blessed  then  are 
our  Boots,  Gum,  Thigh,  though  even  these  cannot 
altogether  ward  off  frost-bite  and  chilblains. 

Over  the  way.  Brother  Boche  is  having  a  bad 
time  of  it:  his  trenches  are  in  a  worse  state  than 
ours.  Last  night  a  plaintive  voice  cried  out  — 

"Are  you  dere,  Jock?  Haf  you  whiskey?  We 
haf  plenty  water!" 

Not  bad  for  a  Boche,  the  platoon  decided. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  whatever  the  German 
General  Staff  may  think  about  the  war  and  the 
future,  the  German  Infantry  soldier  is  "fed-up." 
His  satiety  takes  the  form  of  a  craving  for  social 
intercourse  with  the  foe.  In  the  small  hours,  when 
the  vigilance  of  the  German  N.C.O.'s  is  relaxed, 
and  the  officers  are  probably  in  their  dug-outs, 
he  makes  rather  pathetic  overtures.  We  are  fre- 
quently invited  to  come  out  and  shake  hands. 
"  Dis  war  will  be  ober  the  nineteen  of  nex'  month ! " 
(Evidently  the  Kaiser  has  had  another  revela- 
tion.) The  other  morning  a  German  soldier,  with 


WINTER  QUARTERS  11 

a  wisp  of  something  white  in  his  hand,  actually 
clambered  out  of  the  firing-trench  and  advanced 
towards  our  lines.  The  distance  was  barely 
seventy  yards.  No  shot  was  fired,  but  you  may 
be  sure  that  safety-catches  were  hastily  released. 
Suddenly,  in  the  tense  silence,  the  ambassador's 
nerve  failed  him.  He  bolted  back,  followed  by  a 
few  desultory  bullets.  The  reason  for  his  sudden 
panic  was  never  rightly  ascertained,  but  the 
weight  of  public  opinion  inclined  to  the  view  that 
Mucklewame,  who  had  momentarily  exposed 
himself  above  the  parapet,  was  responsible. 

"I  doot  he  thocht  ye  were  a  lion  escapit  from 
the  Scottish  Zoo!"  explained  a  brother  corporal, 
referring  to  his  indignant  colleague's  new  winter 
coat. 

Here  is  another  incident,  with  a  different  end- 
ing. At  one  point  our  line  approaches  to  within 
fifteen  yards  of  the  Boche  trenches.  One  wet  and 
dismal  dawn,  as  the  battalion  stood  to  arms  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  this  delectable  spot,  there  came 
a  sudden  shout  from  the  enemy,  and  an  outburst 
of  rapid  rifle  fire.  Almost  simultaneously  two 
breathless  and  unkempt  figures  tumbled  over  our 
parapet  into  the  firing-trench.  The  fusillade  died 
away. 

To  the  extreme  discomfort  and  shame  of  a  re- 
spectable citizen  of  Bannockburn,  one  Private 
Buncle,  the  more  hairy  of  the  two  visitors,  upon 
recovering  his  feet,  promptly  flung  his  arms 
around  his  neck  and  Idssed  him  on  both  cheeks. 
The  outrage  was  repeated,  by  his  companion,  upon 
Private  Nigg.    At  the  same  time  both  visitors 


12  ALL  IN  IT 

broke  into  a  joyous  chant  of  "Russky!  RusskyI" 
They  were  escaped  Russian  prisoners. 

When  taken  to  Headquarters  they  explained 
that  they  had  been  brought  up  to  perform  fatigue 
work  near  the  German  trenches,  and  had  seized 
upon  a  quiet  moment  to  shp  into  some  convenient 
undergrowth.  Later,  under  cover  of  night,  they 
had  made  their  way  in  the  direction  of  the  firing- 
Une,  arriving  just  in  time  to  make  a  dash  before 
daylight  discovered  them.  You  may  imagine 
their  triumphal  departure  from  our  trenches  — 
loaded  with  cigarettes,  chocolate,  biscuits,  but- 
tons, bully  beef,  and  other  imperishable  souvenirs. 

We  have  had  other  visitors.  One  bright  day  a 
Boche  aeroplane  made  a  reconnaissance  of  our 
lines.  It  was  a  beautiful  thing,  white  and  birdUke. 
But  as  its  occupants  were  probably  taking  photo- 
graphs of  our  most  secret  fastnesses,  artistic  ap- 
preciation was  dimmed  by  righteous  wrath  — 
wrath  which  turned  to  profound  gratification 
when  a  phiUstine  British  plane  appeared  in  the 
blue  and  engaged  the  glittering  stranger  in 
battle.  There  was  some  very  pretty  aerial  ma- 
noeuvring, right  over  our  heads,  as  the  comba- 
tants swooped  and  circled  for  position.  We  could 
hear  their  machine-gun  pattering  away;  and 
the  volume  of  sound  was  increased  by  the  distant 
contributions  of  "Coughing  Clara"  —  our  latest 
anti-aircraft  gun,  which  appears  to  sufifer  from 
chronic  irritation  of  the  mucous  membrane. 

Suddenly  the  German  aeroplane  gave  a  lurch; 
then  righted  herself;  then  began  to  circle  down, 
making  desperate  efforts  to  cross  the  neutral  line. 


WINTER  QUARTERS  13 

But  the  British  airman  headed  her  off.  Next 
moment  she  lurched  again,  and  then  took  a  "nose- 
dive" straight  into  the  British  trenches.  She  fell 
on  open  ground,  a  few  hundred  yards  behind  our 
second  line.  The  place  had  been  a  wilderness  a 
moment  before;  but  the  crowd  which  instantane- 
ously sprang  up  round  the  wreck  could  not  have 
been  less  than  two  hundred  strong.  (One  observes 
the  same  uncanny  phenomenon  in  London,  when 
a  cab-horse  falls  down  in  a  deserted  street.)  How- 
ever, it  melted  away  at  the  rebuke  of  the  first  offi- 
cer who  hurried  to  the  spot,  the  process  of  dissolu- 
tion being  accelerated  by  several  bursts  of  Ger- 
man shrapnel. 

Both  pilot  and  observer  were  dead.  They  had 
made  a  gallant  fight,  and  were  buried  the  same 
evening,  with  all  honour,  in  the  little  cemetery, 
alongside  many  who  had  once  been  their  foes,  but 
were  now  peacefully  neutral. 

IV 

The  housing  question  in  Belgium  confronts  us 
with  several  novel  problems.  It  is  not  so  easy  to 
billet  troops  here,  especially  in  the  Salient,  as  in 
France.  Some  of  us  live  in  huts,  others  in  tents, 
others  in  dug-outs.  Others,  more  fortunate,  are 
loaded  on  to  a  fleet  of  motor-buses  and  whisked 
off  to  more  civilised  dwellings  many  miles  away. 
These  buses  once  plied  for  hire  upon  the  streets  of 
London.  Each  bus  is  in  charge  of  the  identical 
pair  of  cross-talk  comedians  who  controlled  its 
destinies  in  more  peaceful  days.  Strangely  attired 
in  khaki  and  sheepskin,  they  salute  officers  with 


14  ALL  IN  IT 

cheerful  bonhomie,  and  bellow  to  one  another 
throughout  the  journey  the  simple  and  primitive 
jests  of  their  previous  incarnation,  to  the  huge 
delight  of  their  fares. 

The  destination-boards  and  advertisements  are 
no  more,  for  the  buses  are  painted  a  neutral  green 
all  over;  but  the  conductor  is  always  ready  and 
willing  to  tell  you  what  his  previous  route  was. 

"That  Daimler  behind  you,  sir,"  he  informs 
you,  "is  one  of  the  Number  Nineteens.  Set  you 
down  at  the  top  of  Sloane  Street  many  a  time,  I  '11 
be  bound.  Ernie"  —  this  to  the  driver,  along  the 
side  of  the  bus  —  "you  oughter  have  slowed 
down  when  thet  copper  waved  his  little  flag:  he 
wasn't  pleased  with  yer,  ole  son!"  (The  "cop- 
per" is  a  military  mounted  policeman,  controlling 
the  trajQEic  of  a  little  town  which  Ues  on  our  way  to 
the  trenches.)  "This  one  we're  on  is  a  Number 
Eight,  sir.  No,  that  dent  in  the  staircase  was  n't 
done  by  no  shell.  The  ole  girl  got  that  through  a 
skid  up  against  a  lamp-post,  one  wet  Saturday 
night  in  the  Vauxhall  Bridge  Road.  Dangerous 
place,  London!" 

We  rattle  through  a  brave  little  town,  which  is 
"carrying  on"  in  the  face  of  paralysed  trade  and 
periodical  shelling.  Soldiers  abound.  All  are 
muddy,  but  some  are  muddier  than  others.  The 
latter  are  going  up  to  the  trenches,  the  former  are 
coming  back.  Upon  the  walls,  here  and  there,  we 
notice  a  gay  poster  advertising  an  entertainment 
organised  by  certain  Divisional  troops,  which  is  to 
be  given  nightly  throughout  the  week.  At  the 
foot  of  the  bill  is  printed  in  large  capitals,  A 
HQOGE  SUCCESS!  We  should  Uke  to  send  a 


WINTER  QUARTERS  13 

copy  of  that  plucky  document  to  Brother  Boche. 
He  would  not  understand  it,  but  it  would  annoy 
him  greatly. 

Now  we  leave  the  town  behind,  and  quicken 
up  along  the  open  road  —  an  interminable  ribbon 
of  pave,  absolutely  straight,  and  bordered  upon 
either  side  by  what  was  once  macadam,  but  is 
now  a  quagmire  a  foot  deep.  Occasionally  there 
is  a  warning  cry  of  "Wire!"  and  the  outside  fares 
hurriedly  bow  from  the  waist,  in  order  to  avoid 
having  their  throats  cut  by  a  telephone  wire  — 
"Gunners,  for  a  dollar!"  surmises  a  strangled 
voice  —  tightly  stretched  across  the  road  between 
two  poplars.  Occasionally,  too,  that  indefatiga- 
ble humorist,  Ernie,  directs  his  course  beneath 
some  low-spreading  branches,  through  which  the 
upper  part  of  the  bus  crashes  remorselessly,  while 
the  passengers,  lying  sardine-wise  upon  the  roof 
uplift  their  voices  in  profane  and  bloodthirsty 
chorus. 

"Nothing  like  a  bit  o'  fun  on  the  way  to  the 
trenches,  boys!  It  may  be  the  last  you'll  get!"  is 
the  only  apology  which  Ernie  offers. 

Presently  our  vehicle  bumps  across  a  nubbly 
bridge,  and  enters  what  was  once  a  fair  city.  It  is 
a  walled  city,  like  Chester,  and  is  separated  from 
the  surrounding  country  by  a  moat  as  wide  as  the 
upper  Thames.  In  days  gone  by  those  ramparts 
and  that  moat  could  have  held  an  army  at  bay  — 
and  probably  did,  more  than  once.  They  have 
done  so  yet  again;  but  at  what  a  cost! 

We  glide  through  the  ancient  gateway  and 


16  ALL  IN  IT 

along  the  ghostly  streets,  and  survey  the  crowning 
achievement  of  the  cultured  Boche.  The  great 
buildings  —  the  Cathedral,  the  Cloth  Hall  —  are 
jagged  ruins.  The  fronts  of  the  houses  have  long 
disappeared,  leaving  the  interiors  exposed  to  view, 
Uke  a  doll's  house.  Here  is  a  street  full  of  shops. 
That  heap  of  splintered  wardrobes  and  legless 
tables  was  once  a  furniture  warehouse.  That  snug 
Uttle  corner  house,  with  the  tottering  zinc  counter 
and  the  twisted  beer  engine,  is  an  obvious  esta- 
minet.  You  may  observe  the  sign,  "Aux  Deux 
Amis,"  in  dingy  lettering  over  the  doorway.  Here 
is  an  oil-and-colour  shop :  you  can  still  see  the  red 
ochre  and  white  lead  splashed  about  among  the 
ruins. 

In  almost  every  house  the  ceilings  of  the  upper 
floors  have  fallen  in.  Chairs,  tables,  and  bed- 
steads hang  precariously  into  the  room  below. 
Here  and  there  a  picture  still  adheres  to  the  wall. 
From  one  of  the  bedposts  flutters  a  tattered  and 
diminutive  garment  of  blue  and  white  check  — 
some  Uttle  girl's  frock.  Where  is  that  little  girl 
now,  we  wonder;  and  has  she  got  another  frock? 

One  is  struck  above  all  things  with  the  minute 
detail  of  the  damage.  You  would  say  that  a  party 
of  lunatics  had  been  let  loose  on  the  city  with  coal- 
hanomers:  there  is  hardly  a  square  yard  of  any 
surface  which  is  not  pierced,  or  sphntered,  or 
dented.  The  whole  fabric  of  the  place  hes  pros- 
trate, under  a  shroud  of  broken  bricks  and  broken 
plaster.  The  Hun  has  said  in  his  majesty : "  If  you 
will  not  yield  me  this,  the  last  city  in  the  last 
corner  of  Belgium,  I  can  at  least  see  to  it  that 


WINTER  QUARTERS  17 

not  one  stone  thereof  remains  upon  another. 
So— yah!" 

Such  is  the  appearance  presented  by  the  ven- 
erable and  historic  city  of  Ypres,  after  fifteen 
months  of  personal  contact  with  the  apostles  of 
the  new  civilisation.  Only  the  methodical  and 
painstaking  Boche  could  have  reduced  a  town 
of  such  a  size  to  such  a  state.  Imagine  Chester  in 
a  similar  condition,  and  you  may  reaUse  the  num- 
ber of  shells  which  have  fallen,  and  are  still  falUng, 
into  the  stricken  city. 

But  —  the  main  point  to  observe  is  this.  We 
are  inside,  and  the  Boche  is  outside!  Fenced  by  a 
mighty  crescent  of  prosaic  trenches,  themselves 
manned  by  paladins  of  an  almost  incredible  sto- 
lidity, Ypres  still  points  her  broken  fingers  to  the 
sky  —  shattered,  silent,  but  inviolate  still;  and 
all  owing  to  the  obstinacy  of  a  dull  and  unready 
nation  which  merely  keeps  faith  and  stands  by  its 
friends.  Such  an  attitude  of  mind  is  incomprehen- 
sible to  the  Boche,  and  we  are  well  content  that 
it  should  be  so. 


II 

SHELL  OXTTt 
I 

This,  according  to  our  latest  subaltern  from  home, 
is  the  title  of  a  revue  which  is  running  in  Town; 
but  that  is  a  mere  coincidence.  The  entertain- 
ment to  which  I  am  now  referring  took  place  in 
Flanders,  and  the  leading  parts  were  assigned  to 
distinguished  members  of  ''K  (1)." 

The  scene  was  the  Chateau  de  Grandbois,  or 
some  other  kind  of  Bois;  possibly  Vert.  Not  that 
we  called  it  that :  we  invariably  referred  to  it  after- 
wards as  Hush  Hall,  for  reasons  which  will  be  set 
forth  in  due  course. 

One  morning,  while  sojourning  in  what  Olym- 
pus humorously  calls  a  rest-camp,  —  a  collection 
of  antiquated  wigwams  half  submerged  in  a  mud- 
flat,  intermittently  shelled  —  we  received  the  in- 
telhgence  that  we  were  to  extricate  ourselves  forth- 
with, and  take  over  a  fresh  sector  of  trenches.  The 
news  was  doubly  unwelcome,  because,  in  the  first 
place,  it  is  always  unpleasant  to  face  the  prospect 
of  trenches  of  any  kind;  and  secondly,  to  take 
over  strange  trenches  in  the  dead  of  a  winter  night 
is  an  experience  which  borders  upon  nightmare  — 
the  hot-lobster-and-toasted-cheese  variety. 

The  opening  stages  of  this  enterprise  are  almost 
ambassadorial  in  their  formahty.  First  of  all,  the 
Brigade  Staff  which  is  coming  in  visits  the  Head- 


SHELL  OUT!  19 

quarters  of  the  Brigade  which  is  going  out  —  usu- 
ally a  chateau  or  farm  somewhere  in  rear  of  the 
trenches  —  and  makes  the  preliminary  arrange- 
ments. After  that  the  Commanding  Officers  and 
Company  Conomanders  of  the  incoming  battalions 
visit  their  own  particular  section  of  the  line.  They 
are  shown  over  the  premises  by  the  outgoing  ten- 
ants, who  make  little  or  no  attempt  to  conceal  their 
satisfaction  at  the  expiration  of  their  lease.  The 
Colonels  and  the  Captains  then  return  to  camp, 
with  depressing  tales  of  crumbling  parapets,  noi- 
some dug-outs,  and  positions  open  to  enfilade. 

On  the  day  of  the  relief  various  advance  parties 
go  up,  keeping  under  the  lee  of  hedges  and  em- 
bankments, and  marching  in  single  file.  (At  least, 
that  is  what  they  are  supposed  to  do.  If  not  ruth- 
lessly shepherded,  they  will  advance  in  fours  along 
the  skyline.)  Having  arrived,  they  take  over  such 
positions  as  can  be  relieved  by  daylight  in  com- 
parative safety.  They  also  take  over  trench- 
stores,  and  exchange  trench-gossip. 

The  latter  is  a  fearsome  and  uncanny  thing.  It 
usually  begins  life  at  the  ''refilling  point,"  where 
the  A.S.C.  motor-lorries  dump  down  next  day's  ra- 
tions, and  the  regimental  transport  picks  them  up. 

An  A.S.C.  Sergeant  mentions  casually  to  a  regi- 
mental Quartermaster  that  he  has  heard  it  said  at 
the  Supply  Dep6t  that  heavy  firing  has  been  going 
on  in  the  Channel.  The  Quartermaster,  on  return- 
ing to  the  Transport  Lines,  observes  to  his  Quar- 
termaster-Sergeant that  the  German  Fleet  has 
come  out  at  last.  The  Quartermaster-Sergeant, 
when  he  meets  the  ration  parties  behind  the  lines 


20  ALL  IN  IT 

that  night,  announces  to  a  platoon  Sergeant  that 
we  have  won  a  great  naval  victory.  The  platoon 
Sergeant,  who  is  suffering  from  trench  feet  and  is  a 
constant  reader  of  a  certain  pessimistic  halfpenny- 
journal,  rephes  gloomily:  "We'll  have  had  heavy 
losses  oorselves,  too,  I  doot!"  This  observation  is 
overheard  by  various  members  of  the  ration  party. 
By  midnight  several  hundred  yards  of  the  firing- 
line  know  for  a  fact  that  there  has  been  a  naval 
disaster  of  the  first  magnitude  off  the  coast  of  a  place 
which  every  one  calls  Gaily  Polly,  and  that  the 
whole  of  our  Division  are  to  be  transferred  forth- 
with to  the  Near  East  to  stem  the  tide  of  calamity. 
Still,  we  must  have  something  to  chat  about. 

Meanwhile  Brigade  Majors  and  Adjutants, 
holding  a  stumpy  pencil  in  one  hand  and  a  burn- 
ing brow  in  the  other,  are  composing  Operation 
Orders  which  shall  effect  the  relief,  without  — 

(1)  Leaving  some  detail  —  the  bombers,  or  the 
snipers,  or  the  sock-driers,  or  the  pea-soup  experts 
—  imreheved  altogether. 

(2)  Causing  relievers  and  reheved  to  meet  vio- 
lently together  in  some  constricted  fairway. 

(3)  Trespassing  into  some  other  Brigade  Area. 
(This  is  far  more  foolhardy  than  to  wander  into 
the  German  lines.) 

(4)  Getting  shelled. 

Pitfall  Number  One  is  avoided  by  keeping  a 
permanent  and  handy  hst  of  "all  the  people  who 
do  funny  things  on  their  own"  (as  the  vulgar 
throng  call  the  "specialists"),  and  checking  it 
carefully  before  issuing  Orders. 


SHELL  OUT!  21 

Number  Two  is  dealt  with  by  issuing  a  strict 
time-table,  which  might  possibly  be  adhered  to  by 
a  well-drilled  flock  of  archangels,  in  broad  day- 
light, upon  good  roads,  and  under  peace  condi- 
tions. 

Number  Three  is  provided  for  by  copious  and 
complicated  map  references. 

Number  Four  is  left  to  Providence  —  and  is 
usually  the  best-conducted  feature  of  the  excur- 
sion. 

Under  cover  of  night  the  Battalion  sets  out,  in 
comparatively  small  parties.  They  form  a  strange 
procession.  The  men  wear  their  trench-costume 
—  thigh-boots  (which  do  not  go  well  with  a  kilt), 
variegated  coats  of  skins,  and  woollen  nightcaps. 
Stuffed  under  their  belts  and  through  their  packs 
they  carry  newspapers,  broken  staves  for  fire- 
wood, parcels  from  home,  and  sandbags  loaded 
with  mysterious  comforts.  A  dilapidated  parrot 
and  a  few  goats  are  all  that  is  required  to  complete 
the  picture  of  Robinson  Crusoe  changing  camp. 

Progress  is  not  easy.  It  is  a  pitch-black  night. 
By  day,  this  road  (and  all  the  countryside)  is  a 
wilderness :  nothing  more  innocent  ever  presented 
itself  to  the  eye  of  an  inquisitive  aeroplane.  But 
after  nightfall  it  is  packed  with  troops  and  trans- 
port, and  not  a  light  is  shown.  If  you  can  imagine 
what  the  Mansion  House  crossing  would  be  like  if 
called  upon  to  sustain  its  midday  traffic  at  mid- 
night —  the  Mansion  House  crossing  entirely  un- 
illuminated,  paved  with  twelve  inches  of  liquid 
mud,  intersected  by  narrow  strips  of  pavi,  and 
liberally  pitted  with  "crump-holes"  —  you  may 


22  ALL  IN  IT 

derive  some  faint  idea  of  the  state  of  things  at  a 
busy  road-junction  lying  behind  the  trenches. 

Until  reaching  what  is  facetiously  termed  "the 
shell  area"  —  as  if  any  spot  in  this  benighted  dis- 
trict were  not  a  shell  area  —  the  troops  plod  along 
in  fours  at  the  right  of  the  road.  If  they  can 
achieve  two  miles  an  hour,  they  do  well.  At  any 
moment  they  may  be  called  upon  to  halt,  and 
crowd  into  the  roadside,  while  a  transport-train 
passes  carrying  rations,  and  coke,  and  what  is 
called  *'R.E.  material"  —  this  may  be  an5rthing 
from  a  bag  of  nails  to  steel  girders  nine  feet  long — 
up  to  the  firing-Hne.  When  this  procession,  con- 
sisting of  a  dozen  limbered  waggons,  drawn  by 
four  mules  and  headed  by  a  profane  person  on 
horseback  —  the  Transport  Officer  —  has  rum- 
bled past,  the  Company,  which  has  been  standing 
respectfully  in  the  ditch,  enjoying  a  refreshing 
shower-bath  of  mud  and  hoping  that  none  of  the 
steel  girders  are  projecting  from  the  limber  more 
than  a  yard  or  two,  sets  out  once  more  upon  its 
way  —  only  to  take  hasty  cover  again  as  sounds 
of  fresh  and  more  animated  traffic  are  heard  ap- 
proaching from  the  opposite  direction.  There  is 
no  mistaking  the  nature  of  this  cavalcade:  the 
long  vista  of  glowing  cigarette-ends  tells  an  unmis- 
takable tale.  These  are  artillery  waggons,  return- 
ing empty  from  replenishing  the  batteries;  scat- 
tering homely  jests  Uke  hail,  and  proceeding, 
wherever  possible,  at  a  hand-gallop.  He  is  a 
cheery  and  gallant  soul,  the  R.A.  driver,  but  his 
interpretation  of  the  rules  of  the  road  requires 
drastic  revision. 


SHELL  OUT!  23 

Sometimes  an  axle  breaks,  or  a  waggon  side- 
slips off  the  pavS  into  the  morass  reserved  for 
infantry,  and  overturns.  The  result  is  a  block, 
which  promptly  extends  forward  and  back  for  a 
couple  of  miles.  A  peculiarly  British  chorus  of 
inquiry  and  remonstrance  —  a  blend  of  biting 
sarcasm  and  blasphemous  humour  —  surges  up 
and  down  the  line;  until  plunging  mules  are  un- 
yoked, and  the  offending  vehicle  man-handled  out 
of  sight  into  the  inky  blackness  by  the  roadside; 
or,  in  extreme  cases,  is  annihilated  with  axes. 
Everything  has  to  make  way  for  a  ration  train. 
To  crown  all,  it  is  more  than  likely  that  the  calm- 
ness and  smooth  working  of  the  proceedings  will 
be  assisted  by  a  burst  of  shrapnel  overhead.  It  is  a 
most  amazing  scrimmage  altogether.  One  of  those 
members  of  His  Majesty's  Opposition  who  are 
doing  so  much  at  present  to  save  our  country  from 
destruction,  by  kindly  pointing  out  the  mistakes 
of  the  British  Government  and  the  British  Army, 
would  refer  to  the  whole  scene  as  a  pandemonium 
of  mismanagement  and  ineptitude.  And  yet, 
though  the  scene  is  enacted  night  after  night 
without  a  break,  there  is  hardly  a  case  on  record 
of  the  transport  being  surprised  upon  these  roads 
by  the  coming  of  dayUght,  and  none  whatever 
of  the  rations  and  ammunition  faiUng  to  get 
through. 

It  is  difficult  to  imagine  that  Brother  Boche, 
who  on  the  other  side  of  that  ring  of  star-shells  is 
conducting  a  precisely  similar  undertaking,  is 
able,  with  all  his  perfect  organisation  and  cast- 
iron  methods,  to  achieve  a  result  in  any  way  su- 


24  ALL  IN  IT 

perior  to  that  which  Thomas  Atkins  reaches  by 
rule  of  thumb  and  sheer  force  of  character. 

At  length  the  draggled  Company  worms  its 
way  through  the  press  to  the  fringe  of  the  shell- 
area,  beyond  which  no  transport  may  pass.  The 
distance  of  this  point  from  the  trenches  varies 
considerably,  and  depends  largely  upon  the  ca- 
price of  the  Boche.  On  this  occasion,  however, 
we  still  have  a  mile  or  two  to  go  —  across  country 
now,  in  single  file,  at  the  heels  of  a  guide  from  the 
battalion  which  we  are  relieving. 

Guides  may  be  divided  into  two  classes  — 

(1)  Guides  who  do  not  know  the  way,  and  say 
so  at  the  outset. 

(2)  Guides  who  do  not  know  the  way,  but  leave 
it  to  you  to  discover  the  fact. 

There  are  no  other  kinds  of  guides. 

The  pace  is  down  to  a  mile  an  hour  now,  except 
in  the  case  of  men  in  the  tail  of  the  line,  who  are 
running  rapidly.  It  is  a  curious  but  quite  inexpli- 
cable fact  that  if  you  set  a  hundred  men  to  march 
in  single  file  in  the  dark,  though  the  leading  man 
may  be  crawling  like  a  tortoise,  the  last  man  is 
compelled  to  proceed  at  a  profane  double  if  he  is 
to  avoid  being  left  behind  and  lost. 

Still,  everybody  gets  there  somehow,  and  in  due 
course  the  various  Company  Coromanders  are 
enabled  to  telephone  to  their  respective  Battahon 
Headquarters  the  information  that  the  Relief  is 
completed.  For  this  reUef,  much  thanks! 

After  that  the  outgoing  Battalion  files  slowly 
out,  and  the  newcomers  are  Mt  gloomily  con- 


SHELL  OUT!  25 

templating  their  new  abiding-place,  and  observ- 
ing — 

"I  wonder  if  there  is  any  Division  in  the  whole 
blessed  Expeditionary  Force,  besides  ours,  which 
ever  does  a  single  damn  thing  to  keep  its  trenches 
in  repair!" 

II 

All  of  which  brings  us  back  to  Hush  Hall,  where 
the  Headquarters  of  the  outgoing  Brigade  are 
handing  over  to  their  successors. 

Hush  Hall,  or  the  Chateau  de  Grandbois,  is  a 
modern  country  house,  and  once  stood  up  white 
and  gleaming  in  all  its  brave  finery  of  stucco,  con- 
servatories, and  ornamental  lake,  amid  a  pleasant 
wood  not  far  from  a  main  road.  It  is  such  a  house 
as  you  might  find  round  about  Guildford  or  Hind- 
head.  There  are  many  in  this  fair  countryside, 
but  few  are  inhabited  now,  and  none  by  their 
rightful  owners.  They  are  all  marked  on  the  map, 
and  the  Boche  gunners  are  assiduous  map-read- 
ers. Hush  Hall  has  got  off  comparatively  lightly. 
It  is  still  habitable,  and  well  furnished.  The  roof 
is  demolished  upon  the  side  most  exposed  to  the 
enemy,  and  many  of  the  trees  in  the  surrounding 
wood  are  broken  and  splintered  by  shrapnel.  Still, 
provided  the  weather  remains  passable,  one  can 
live  there.  Upon  the  danger-side  the  windows  are 
closed  and  shuttered.  Weeds  grow  apace  in  the 
garden.  No  smoke  emerges  from  the  chimneys. 
(If  it  does,  the  Mess  Corporal  hears  about  it  from 
the  Staff  Captain.)  A  few  strands  of  barbed  wire 
obstruct  the  passage  of  those  careless  or  adven- 


26  ALL  IN  IT 

turous  persons  who  may  desire  to  explore  the  for- 
bidden side  of  the  house.  The  front  door  is  bolted 
and  barred:  visitors,  after  approaching  stealthily 
along  the  lee  of  a  hedge,  like  travellers  of  dubious 
bona  fides  on  a  Sunday  afternoon,  enter  unobtru- 
sively by  the  back  door,  which  is  situated  on  the 
bhnd  side  of  the  chateau.  Their  path  thereto  is 
beset  by  imploring  notices  hke  the  following:  — 


THE  SLIGHTEST   MOVEMENT   DRAWS  SHELL 
FIRE.    KEEP  CLOSE  TO  THE  HEDGE 


A  later  hand  has  added  the  following  moving 
postscript :  — 


WE   LIVE  HERE.     YOU  DON'T! 


It  was  the  Staff  Captain  who  was  responsible 
for  the  rechristening  of  the  estabUshment. 

"What  sort  of  place  is  this  new  palace  we  are 
going  to  doss  in?"  inquired  the  Machine-Gun 
Officer,  when  the  Staff  Captain  returned  from  his 
preliminary  visit. 

The  Staff  Captain,  who  was  a  man  of  a  few 
words,  repUed  — 

"It's  the  sort  of  shanty  where  everybody  goes 
about  in  felt  shppers,  saying  'Hush!'" 

Brigade  Headquarters  —  this  means  the  Briga- 
dier, the  Brigade  Major,  the  Staff  Captain,  the 


SHELL  OUT!  27 

Machine-Gun  Officer,  the  Signal  Officer,  mayhap 
a  Padre  and  a  Liaison  Officer,  accompanied  by  a 
mixed  multitude  of  clerks,  telegraphists,  and  scul- 
lions —  arrived  safely  at  their  new  quarters  under 
cover  of  night,  and  were  hospitably  received  by 
the  outgoing  tenants,  who  had  finished  their  eve- 
ning meal  and  were  girded  up  for  departure.  In 
fact,  the  Machine-Gun  Officer,  Liaison  Officer, 
and  Padre  had  already  gone,  leaving  their  seniors 
to  hold  the  fort  till  the  last.  The  Signal  Officer 
was  down  in  the  cellar,  handling  over  ohms,  am- 
peres, short-circuits,  and  other  mysterious  trench- 
stores  to  his  "opposite  number." 

Upon  these  occasions  there  is  usually  a  good 
deal  of  time  to  fill  in  between  the  arrival  of  the 
new  brooms  and  the  departure  of  the  old.  This 
period  of  waiting  may  be  likened  to  that  some- 
what anxious  interval  with  which  frequenters  of 
race-courses  are  familiar,  between  the  finish  of  the 
race  and  the  announcement  of  the  ''AH  Right!" 
The  outgoing  Headquarters  are  waiting  for  the 
magic  words  —  "Relief  Complete!"  Until  that 
message  comes  over  the  buzzer,  the  period  of  ten- 
sion endures.  The  main  point  of  difference  is  that 
the  gentleman  who  has  staked  his  fortune  on  the 
legs  of  a  horse  has  only  to  wait  a  few  minutes  for 
the  confirmation  of  his  hopes;  while  a  Brigadier, 
whose  bedtime  (or  even  breakfast-time)  is  at  the 
mercy  of  an  errant  platoon,  may  have  to  sit  up  all 
night. 

"Sit  down  and  make  yourselves  comfortable," 
said  A  Brigade  to  X  Brigade. 

X  Brigade  comphed,  and  having  been  furnished 


28  ALL  IN  IT 

with  refreshment,  led  off  with  the  inevitable 
question  — 

"Does  one  —  er  —  get  shelled  much  here?" 

There  was  a  reassuring  coo  from  A  Brigade. 

"Oh,  no.  This  is  a  very  healthy  spot.  One  has 
to  be  careful,  of  course.  No  movement,  or  fires,  or 
anything  of  that  kind.  A  sentry  or  two,  to  warn 
people  against  approaching  over  the  open  by  day, 
and  you  '11  be  as  cooshie  as  anything ! "  ("  Cooshie' ' 
is  the  latest  word  here.  That  and  "crump.") 

"I  ought  to  warn  you  of  one  thing,"  said  the 
Brigadier.  "Owing  to  the  surrounding  woods, 
sound  is  most  deceptive  here.  You  will  hear  shell- 
bursts  which  appear  quite  close,  when  in  reahty 
they  are  quite  a  distance  away.  That,  for  in- 
stance!"—  as  a  shell  exploded  apparently  just 
outside  the  window.  "That  little  fellow  is  a 
couple  of  hundred  yards  away,  in  the  comer  of 
the  wood.  The  Boche  has  been  groping  about 
there  for  a  battery  for  the  last  two  days." 

"Is  the  battery  there?"  inquired  a  voice. 

"No;  it  is  farther  east.  But  there  is  a  Gunner's 
Mess  about  two  hundred  yards  from  here,  in 
that  house  which  you  passed  on  the  way  up." 

"Oh!"  observed  X  Brigade. 

Gunners  are  pecuHar  people.  When  profes- 
sionally engaged,  no  men  could  be  more  retiring. 
They  screen  their  operations  from  the  pubUc  gaze 
with  the  utmost  severity,  shrouding  batteries  in 
screens  of  foliage  and  other  rustic  disguises.  If  a 
layman  strays  anywhere  near  one  of  these  arbo- 
real retreats,  a  gunner  thrusts  out  a  visage  en- 
flamed  with  righteous  wrath,  and  curses  him  for 


SHELL  OUT!  29 

giving  the  position  away.  But  in  his  hours  of  re- 
laxation the  gunner  is  a  different  being.  He  billets 
himself  in  a  house  with  plenty  of  windows :  he  il- 
luminates all  these  by  night,  and  hangs  washing 
therefrom  by  day.  When  inclined  for  exercise,  he 
plays  football  upon  an  open  space  labelled  — 
"Not  to  be  used  by  troops  during  daylight." 
Therefore,  despite  his  technical  excellence  and 
superb  courage,  he  is  an  uncomfortable  neighbour 
for  establishments  like  Hush  Hall. 

In  this  respect  he  offers  a  curious  contrast  to 
the  Sapper.  Off  duty,  the  Sapper  is  the  most  un- 
obtrusive of  men  —  a  cave-man,  in  fact.  He  bur- 
rows deep  into  the  earth,  or  the  side  of  a  hill,  and 
having  secured  the  roof  of  this  cavern  against 
direct  hits  by  ingenious  contrivances  of  his  own 
manufacture,  constructs  a  suite  of  furniture  of  a 
solid  and  enduring  pattern,  and  lives  the  life  of  a 
comfortable  recluse.  But  when  engaged  in  the 
pursuit  of  his  calling,  the  Sapper  is  the  least  retir- 
ing of  men.  The  immemorial  tradition  of  the  great 
Corps  to  which  he  belongs  has  ordained  that  no 
fire,  however  fierce,  must  be  allowed  to  interfere 
with  a  Sapper  in  the  execution  of  his  duty.  This 
rule  is  usually  interpreted  by  the  Sapper  to  mean 
that  you  must  not  perform  your  allotted  task  un- 
der cover  when  it  is  possible  to  do  so  under  fire. 
To  this  is  added,  as  a  rider,  that  in  the  absence  of 
an  adequate  supply  of  fire,  you  must  draw  fire. 
So  the  Sapper  walks  cheerfully  about  on  the  tops 
of  parapets,  hugging  large  and  conspicuous  pieces 
of  timber,  or  clashing  together  sheets  of  corru- 
gated iron,  as  happy  as  a  king. 


30  ALL  IN  IT 

"You  will  find  this  house  quite  snug,"  contin- 
ued the  Brigadier.  ''The  eastern  suite  is  to  be 
avoided,  because  there  is  no  roof  there;  and  if  it 
rains  outside  for  a  day,  it  rains  in  the  best  bed- 
room for  a  week.  There  is  a  big  kitchen  in  the 
basement,  with  a  capital  range.  That's  all,  I 
think.  The  chief  thing  to  avoid  is  movement  of 
any  kind.  The  leaves  are  coming  off  the  trees 
now — " 

At  this  moment  an  orderly  entered  the  room 
with  a  pink  telegraph  message. 

"Relief  complete,  sir!"  announced  the  Brigade 
Major,  reading  it. 

"Good  work!"  replied  both  Brigadiers,  looking 
at  their  watches  simultaneously,  "considering  the 
state  of  the  country."  The  Brigadier  of  "A"  rose 
to  his  feet. 

"Now  we  can  pass  along  quietly,"  he  said. 
"Good  luck  to  you.  By  the  way,  take  care  of 
Edgar,  won't  you?  Any  little  attention  which  you 
can  show  him  will  be  greatly  appreciated." 

"Who  is  Edgar?" 

"Oh,  I  thought  the  Staff  Captain  would  have 
told  you.  Edgar  is  the  swan  —  the  last  of  his  race, 
I  'm  afraid,  so  far  as  this  place  is  concerned.  He 
lives  on  the  lake,  and  usually  comes  ashore  to 
draw  his  rations  about  lunch-time.  He  is  inclined 
to  be  stand-offish  on  one  side,  as  he  has  only  one 
eye;  but  he  is  most  affable  on  the  other.  Well, 
now  to  find  our  horses!" 

As  the  three  officers  departed  down  the  back- 
door steps,  a  hesitating  voice  followed  them  — 

"H'm!  Is  there  any  place  where  one  can  go  — 


SHELL  OUT!  31 

a  cellar,  or  any  old  spot  of  that  kind  —  just  in 
case  we  are  — " 

"Bless  you,  you'll  be  all  right!"  was  the  cheery 
reply.  (The  outgoing  Brigade  is  always  exces- 
sively cheery.)  "But  there  are  dug-outs  over 
there  —  in  the  garden.  They  have  n't  been  occu- 
pied for  some  months,  so  you  may  find  them  a  bit 
ratty.  You  won't  require  them,  though.  Good- 
night!" 

Ill 

Whizz!  Boom!  Bang!  Crash!  Wump! 

"It's  just  as  well,"  mused  the  Brigade  Major, 
turning  in  his  sleep  about  three  o'clock  the  follow- 
ing morning,  "that  they  warned  us  about  the  de- 
ceptive sound  of  the  sheUing  here.  One  would 
almost  imagine  that  it  was  quite  close.  .  .  .  That 
last  one  was  heavy  stuff:  it  shook  the  whole  place! 
.  .  .  This  is  a  topping  mattress :  it  would  be  rotten 
having  to  take  to  the  woods  again  after  getting 
into  really  cooshie  quarters  at  last.  .  .  .  There 
they  go  again!"  as  a  renewed  tempest  of  shells 
rent  the  silence  of  night.  "That  old  battery  must 
be  getting  it  in  the  neck!  .  .  .  Hallo,  I  could  have 
sworn  something  hit  the  roof  that  time!  A  loose 
slate,  I  expect!  Anyhow  .  .  ." 

The  Brigade  Major,  who  had  had  a  very  long 
day,  turned  over  and  went  to  sleep  again. 

rv 

The  next  morning,  a  Sunday,  broke  bright  and 
clear.  Contrary  to  his  usual  habit,  the  Brigade 
Major  took  a  stroll  in  the  garden  before  breakfast. 


32  ALL  IN  IT 

The  first  object  which  caught  his  eye,  as  he  came 
down  the  back-door  steps,  was  the  figure  of  the 
Staff  Captain,  brooding  pensively  over  a  large 
crater,  close  to  the  hedge.  The  Brigade  Major 
joined  him. 

"I  wonder  if  that  was  there  yesterday! "  he  ob- 
served, referring  to  the  crater. 

"Could  n't  have  been,"  growled  the  Staff  Cap- 
tain. "We  walked  to  the  house  along  this  very 
hedge.  No  craters  then!" 

"True!"  agreed  the  Brigade  Major  amiably. 
He  turned  and  surveyed  the  garden,  "That  lawn 
looks  a  bit  of  a  golf  course.  What  lovely  bunk- 
ers!" 

"They  appear  to  be  quite  new,  too,"  remarked 
the  Staff  Captain  thoughtfully.  "Come  to  break- 
fast!" 

On  their  way  back  they  found  the  Brigadier, 
the  Machine-Gun  Officer,  and  the  Padre,  gazing 
silently  upward. 

"I  wonder  when  that  corner  of  the  house  got 
knocked  off,"  the  M.G.O.  was  observing. 

"Fairly  recently,  I  should  say,"  rephed  the 
Brigadier. 

"Those  marks  beside  your  bedroom  window, 
sir,  —  they  look  pretty  fresh!"  interpolated  the 
Padre,  a  sincere  but  somewhat  tactless  Christian. 

Brigade  Headquarters  regarded  one  another 
with  dubious  smiles. 

"I  wonder, ^^  began  a  tentative  voice,  "if  those 
fellows  last  night  were  indulging  in  a  leg-pull  — 
what  is  called  in  this  country  a  tire-jambe  —  when 
they  assured  us  — " 


SHELL  OUT!  33 

Whoo-00-oo-oo-ump  ! 

A  shell  came  shrieking  over  the  tree-tops,  and 
fell  with  a  tremendous  splash  into  the  geometrical 
centre  of  the  lake,  fifty  yards  away. 

For  the  next  two  hours,  shrapnel,  ''whizz- 
bangs,"  ''Silent  Susies,"  and  other  explosive  wild- 
fowl raged  round  the  walls  of  Hush  Hall.  The 
inhabitants  thereof,  some  twenty  persons  in  all, 
were  gathered  in  various  apartments  on  the  lee 
side. 

"It  is  still  possible,"  remarked  the  Brigadier, 
lighting  his  pipe,  "that  they  are  not  aiming  at  us. 
However,  it  is  just  as  inconvenient  to  be  bm-ied 
by  accident  as  by  design.  As  soon  as  the  first 
direct  hit  is  registered  upon  this  imposing  fabric, 
we  will  retire  to  the  dug-outs.  Send  word  to  the 
kitchen  that  every  one  is  to  be  ready  to  clear  out 
of  the  house  when  necessary." 

Next  moment  there  came  a  resounding  crash, 
easily  audible  above  the  tornado  raging  in  the 
garden,  followed  by  Ithe  sound  of  spHntering  glass. 
Hush  Hall  rocked.  The  Mess  waiter  appeared. 

"A  shell  has  just  came  in  through  the  dining- 
room  window,  sirr,"  he  informed  the  Mess  Presi- 
dent, "and  broke  three  of  they  new  cups!" 

"How  tiresome!"  said  the  Brigadier.  "Dug- 
outs, everybody!" 

V 

There  were  no  casualties,  which  was  rather 
miraculous.  Late  in  the  afternoon  Brigade  Head- 
quarters ventured  upon  another  stroll  in  the  gar- 


34  ALL  IN  IT 

den.  The  tumult  had  ceased,  and  the  setting  Sab- 
bath sun  glowed  peacefully  upon  the  battered 
countenance  of  Hush  Hall.  The  damage  was  not 
very  extensive,  for  the  house  was  stoutly  built. 
Still,  two  bedrooms,  recently  occupied,  were  a 
wreck  of  broken  glass  and  splintered  plaster,  while 
the  gravel  outside  was  littered  with  lead  sheeting 
and  twisted  chimney-cans.  The  shell  which  had 
aroused  the  indignation  of  the  Mess  waiter  by 
entering  the  dining-room  window,  had  in  reality 
hit  the  ground  directly  beneath  it.  Six  feet  higher, 
and  the  Brigadier's  order  to  clear  the  house  would 
have  been  entirely  superfluous. 

The  Brigade  Major  and  the  Staff  Captain  sur- 
veyed the  unruffled  surface  of  the  lake  —  a  haunt 
of  ancient  peace  in  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun. 
Upon  the  bosom  thereof  floated  a  single,  majestic, 
one-eyed  swan,  performing  intricate  toilet  exer- 
cises. It  was  Edgar. 

"He  must  have  a  darned  good  dug-out  some- 
where!" observed  the  Brigade  Major  enviously. 


Ill 

WINTER  sports:   VARIOUS 
I 

Hush  Hall  having  become  an  even  less  desirable 
place  of  residence  than  had  hitherto  been  thought 
possible,  Headquarters  very  sensibly  sent  for 
their  invaluable  friends,  Box  and  Cox,  of  the 
Royal  Engineers,  and  requested  that  they  would 
proceed  to  make  the  place  proof  against  shells  and 
weather,  forthwith,  if  not  sooner. 

Those  phlegmatic  experts  made  a  thorough  in- 
vestigation of  the  resources  of  the  establishment, 
and  departed  mysteriously,  after  the  fashion  of 
the  coDomon  plumber  of  civilisation,  into  space. 
Three  days  later  they  returned,  accompanied  by  a 
horde  of  acolytes,  who,  with  characteristic  con- 
tempt for  the  pathetic  appeals  upon  the  notice- 
boards,  proceeded  to  dump  down  lumber,  sand- 
bags, and  corrugated  iron  roofing  in  the  most 
exposed  portions  of  the  garden. 

This  done,  some  set  out  to  shore  up  the  ceilings 
of  the  basement  with  mighty  battens  of  wood,  and 
to  convert  that  region  into  a  nest  of  cunningly  de- 
vised bedrooms.  Others  reinforced  the  flooring 
above  with  a  layer  of  earth  and  brick  rubble  three 
feet  deep.  On  the  top  of  all  this  they  relaid  not 
only  the  original  floor,  but  eke  the  carpet. 

"The  only  difference  from  before,  sir,"  ex- 
plained Box  to  the  admiring  Staff  Captain,  "is 


36  ALL  IN  IT 

that  people  will  have  to  walk  up  three  steps  to  get 
into  the  dining-room  now,  instead  of  going  in  on 
the  level." 

"I  wonder  what  the  Marquise  de  Grandbois 
will  think  of  it  all  when  she  returns  to  her  ances- 
tral home,"  mused  the  Staff  Captain. 

''If  anything,"  maintained  the  invincible  Box, 
"we  have  improved  it  for  her.  For  example,  she 
can  now  Hght  the  chandeUer  without  standing  on 
a  chair  —  without  getting  up  from  table,  in  fact! 
However,  to  resume.  The  fireplace,  you  will  ob- 
serve, has  not  been  touched.  I  have  left  a  sort  of 
well  in  the  floor  all  round  it,  Hned  with  some  stuff 
I  found  in  Mademoiselle's  room.  At  least,"  added 
Box  coyly,  "I  think  it  must  have  been  Mademoi- 
selle's room !  You  can  sit  in  the  well  every  evening 
after  supper.  The  walls  of  this  room" — prod- 
ding the  same  —  "are  lined  with  sandbags,  cov- 
ered with  tapestry.  Pretty  artistic  —  what?" 

"Extremely,"  agreed  the  Staff  Captain.  "You 
will  excuse  my  raising  the  point,  I  know,  but  can 
the  apartment  now  be  regarded  as  shell-proof?" 

"Against  everything  but  a  direct  hit.  I 
would  n't  advise  you  to  sleep  on  this  floor  much, 
but  you  could  have  your  meals  here  all  right. 
Then,  if  the  Boche  starts  putting  over  heavy 
stuff,  you  can  pop  down  into  the  basement  and 
have  your  dessert  in  bed.  You'll  be  absolutely 
safe  there.  In  fact,  the  more  the  house  tumbles 
down  the  safer  you  will  be.  It  will  only  make  your 
protection  shell  thicker.  So  if  you  hear  heavy 
thuds  overhead,  don't  be  alarmed!" 

"I  won't,"  promised  the  Staff  Captain.    "I 


WINTER  SPORTS:  VARIOUS  37 

shall  lie  in  bed,  drinking  a  nice  hot  cup  of  tea,  and 
wondering  whether  the  last  crash  was  the  kitchen 
chimney,  or  only  the  drawing-room  piano  coming 
down  another  storey.   Now  show  me  my  room." 

"We  have  had  to  put  you  in  the  larder,"  ex- 
plained Box  apologetically,  as  he  steered  his  guest 
through  a  forest  of  struts  with  an  electric  torch. 
"At  least,  I  think  it's  the  larder:  it  has  a  sort  of 
meaty  smell.  The  General  is  in  the  dairy  —  a 
lovely  little  suite,  with  white  tiles.  The  Brigade 
Major  has  the  scullery:  it  has  a  sink,  so  is  practi- 
cally as  good  as  a  flat  in  Park  Place.  I  have  run 
up  cubicles  for  the  others  in  the  kitchen.  Here  is 
your  little  cot.  It  is  only  six  feet  by  four,  but  you 
can  dress  in  the  garden." 

"It's  a  sweet  httle  nest,  dear!"  repUed  the  Staff 
Captain,  quite  hypnotised  by  this  time.  "  I  '11  just 
get  my  maid  to  put  me  into  something  loose,  and 
then  I  '11  run  along  to  your  room,  and  we  '11  have  a 
nice  cosy  gossip  together  before  dinner!" 

In  due  course  we  removed  our  effects  from  the 
tottering  and  rat-ridden  dug-outs  in  which  we  had 
taken  sanctuary  during  the  shelling,  and  prepared 
to  settle  down  for  the  winter  in  our  new  quarters. 

"We  might  be  very  much  worse  off!"  we  ob- 
served the  first  evening,  Ustening  to  the  comfort- 
ably muffled  sounds  of  shells  overhead. 

And  we  were  right.  Three  days  later  we  re- 
ceived an  intimation  from  the  Practical  Joke  De- 
partment that  we  were  to  evacuate  our  present 
sector  of  trenches  (including  Hush  Hall)  forth- 
with, and  occupy  another  part  of  the  line. 


38  ALL  IN  IT 

In  all  Sports,  Winter  and  Summer,  the  suprem- 
acy of  the  Practical  Joke  Department  is  unchal- 
lenged. 

n 

Meanwhile,  up  in  the  trenches,  the  combatants 
are  beguiling  the  time  in  their  several  ways. 

Let  us  take  the  reserve  line  first  —  the  lair  of 
Battalion  Headquarters  and  its  appurtenances. 
Much  of  our  time  here,  as  elsewhere,  is  occupied 
in  unostentatious  retirement  to  our  dug-outs,  to 
avoid  the  effects  of  a  bombardment.  But  a  good 
amount  —  an  increasing  amount  —  of  it  is  de- 
voted to  the  contemplation  of  our  own  shells 
bursting  over  the  Boche  trenches.  Gone  are  the 
days  during  which  we  used  to  sit  close  and  "stick 
it  out,"  consoling  ourselves  with  the  vague  hope 
that  by  the  end  of  the  week  our  gunners  might 
possibly  have  garnered  sufficient  ammunition  to 
justify  a  few  brief  hours'  retaliation.  The  boot  is 
on  the  other  leg  now.  For  every  Boche  battery 
that  opens  on  us,  two  or  three  of  ours  thunder 
back  a  reply  —  and  that  without  any  delays  other 
than  those  incidental  to  the  use  of  that  maddening 
instrument,  the  field-telephone.  During  the  past 
six  months  neither  side  has  been  able  to  boast 
much  in  the  way  of  ground  actually  gained;  but 
the  moral  ascendancy  —  the  initiative  —  the  of- 
fensive —  call  it  what  you  will  —  has  changed 
hands;  and  no  one  knows  it  better  than  the 
Boche.  We  are  the  attacking  party  now. 

The  trenches  in  this  country  are  not  arranged 
with  such  geometric  precision  as  in  France.  For 


WINTER  SPORTS:  VARIOUS  39 

instance,  the  reserve  line  is  not  always  connected 
with  the  firing-lines  by  a  communication-trench. 
Those  persons  whose  duty  it  is  to  pay  daily  visits 
to  the  fire-trenches  —  Battalion  Commanders, 
Gunner  and  Sapper  officers,  an  occasional  Staff 
Officer,  and  an  occasional  most  devoted  Padre  — 
perform  the  journey  as  best  they  may.  Sometimes 
they  skirt  a  wood  or  hedge,  sometimes  they  keep 
under  the  lee  of  an  embankment,  sometimes  they 
proceed  across  the  open,  with  the  stealthy  caution 
of  persons  playing  musical  chairs,  ready  to  sit 
down  in  the  nearest  shell-crater  the  moment  the 
music  —  in  the  form  of  a  visitation  of  ''whizz- 
bangs"  —  strikes  up. 

It  is  difficult  to  say  which  kind  of  weather  is 
least  favourable  to  this  enterprise.  On  sunny  days 
one's  movements  are  visible  to  Boche  observers 
upon  adjacent  summits;  while  on  foggy  days  the 
Boche  gunners,  being  able  to  see  nothing  at  all, 
amuse  themselves  by  generous  and  unexpected 
contributions  of  shrapnel  in  all  directions.  Stormy 
weather  is  particularly  unpleasant,  for  the  noise  of 
the  wind  in  the  trees  makes  it  difficult  to  hear  the 
shell  approaching.  Days  of  heavy  rain  are  the 
most  desirable  on  the  whole,  for  then  the  gunners 
are  too  busy  bailing  out  their  gun-pits  to  worry 
their  heads  over  adventurous  pedestrians.  One 
learns,  also,  to  mark  down  and  avoid  particular 
danger-spots.  For  instance,  the  southeast  corner 
of  that  wood,  where  a  reserve  company  are  dug  in, 
is  visited  by  "Silent  Susans"  for  about  five  min- 
utes each  noontide :  it  is  therefore  advisable  to  se- 
lect some  other  hour  for  one's  daily  visit.   (Silent 


40  ALL  IN  IT 

Susan,  by  the  way,  is  not  a  desirable  member  of 
the  sex.  Owing  to  her  intensely  high  velocity  she 
arrives  overhead  without  a  sound,  and  then  bursts 
with  a  perfectly  stunning  detonation  and  a  shower 
of  small  shrapnel  bullets.)  There  is  a  fixed  rifle- 
battery,  too,  which  fires  all  day  long,  a  shot  at  a 
time,  down  the  main  street  of  the  ruined  and  de- 
serted village  named  Vrjoozlehem,  through  which 
one  must  pass  on  the  way  to  the  front-Une 
trenches.  Therefore  in  negotiating  this  delect- 
able spot,  one  shapes  a  laborious  course  through  a 
series  of  back  yards  and  garden-plots.  Uttered 
with  broken  furniture  and  brick  rubble,  allowing 
the  rifle-bullets  the  undisputed  use  of  the  street. 
The  mention  of  Vrjoozlehem  —  that  is  not  its 
real  name,  but  a  simpUfied  form  of  it  —  brings  to 
our  notice  the  wholesale  and  whole-hearted  fash- 
ion in  which  the  British  Army  has  taken  Belgian 
institutions  under  its  wing.  Nomenclature,  for 
instance.  In  France  we  make  no  attempt  to  inter- 
fere with  this:  we  content  ourselves  with  devising 
a  pronounceable  variation  of  the  existing  name. 
For  example,  if  a  road  is  caUed  La  Rue  du  Bois, 
we  simply  call  it  ''Roodiboys,"  and  leave  it  at 
that.  On  the  same  principle,  Etaples  is  modified 
to  "Eatables,"  and  Sailly-la-Bourse  to  "Sally 
Booze."  But  in  Belgium  more  drastic  procedure  is 
required.  A  Scotsman  is  accustomed  to  pronounc- 
ing difficult  names,  but  even  he  is  unable  to  con- 
tend with  words  composed  almost  entirely  of  the 
letters  j,  z,  and  v.  So  our  resourceful  Ordnance 
Department  has  issued  maps  —  admirable  maps 
—  upon  which  the  outstanding  features  of  the 


WINTER  SPORTS:  VARIOUS  41 

landscape  are  marked  in  plain  figures.  But  in- 
stead of  printing  the  original  place-names,  they 
put  ''Moated  Grange,"  or  "Clapham  Junc- 
tion," or  "Dead  Dog  Farm,"  which  simphfies 
matters  beyond  all  possibility  of  error.  (The  sys- 
tem was  once  responsible,  though,  for  an  unjust  if 
unintentional  aspersion  upon  the  character  of  a 
worthy  man.  The  CO.  of  a  certain  battaUon  had 
occasion  to  complain  to  those  above  him  of  the 
remissness  of  one  of  his  chaplains.  ''He's  a  lazy 
beggar,  sir,"  he  said.  "  Over  and  over  again  I  have 
told  him  to  come  up  and  show  himself  in  the 
front-line  trenches,  but  he  never  seems  to  be  able 
to  get  past  Leicester  Square!") 

The  naming  of  the  trenches  themselves  has 
been  left  largely  to  local  enterprise.  An  observant 
person  can  tell,  by  a  study  of  the  numerous  name- 
boards,  which  of  his  countrymen  have  been  occu- 
pying the  line  during  the  past  six  months. 
"Grainger  Street"  and  "Jesmond  Dene"  give 
direct  evidence  of  "Canny  N'castle."  "Sher- 
wood Avenue"  and  "Notts  Forest"  have  a  Mid- 
land flavour.  Lastly,  no  great  mental  effort  is 
required  to  decide  who  labelled  two  communica- 
tion trenches  "The  Gorbals"  and  "Coocaddens" 
respectively! 

Some  names  have  obviously  been  bestowed  by 
officers,  as  "Sackville  Street,"  "The  Albany," 
and  "Burlington  Arcade"  denote.  "Pinch-Gut" 
and  "Crab-Crawl "  speak  for  themselves.  So  does 
"Vermin  ViUa."  Other  localities,  again,  have 
obviously  been  labelled  by  persons  endowed  with 
a  nice  gift  of  irony.  ' '  Sanctuary  Wood ' '  is  the  last 


42  ALL  IN  IT 

place  on  earth  where  any  one  would  dream  of  tak- 
ing sanctuary;  while  "Lovers'  Walk,"  which 
bounds  it,  is  the  scene  of  almost  daily  expositions 
of  the  choicest  brand  of  Boche  *'hate." 

And  so  on.  But  one  day,  when  the  War  is  over, 
and  this  mighty  trench-hne  is  thrown  open  to  the 
disciples  of  the  excellent  Mr.  Cook  —  as  undoubt- 
edly it  will  be  —  care  should  be  taken  that  these 
street-names  are  preserved  and  perpetuated.  It 
would  be  impossible  to  select  a  more  characteristic 
and  fitting  memorial  to  the  brave  hearts  who  con- 
structed them  —  too  many  of  whom  are  sleeping 
their  last  sleep  within  a  few  yards  of  their  own 
cheerful  handiwork. 

in 

After  this  digression  we  at  length  reach  the 
firing-line.  It  is  quite  unlike  anything  of  its  kind 
that  we  have  hitherto  encountered.  It  is  situated 
in  what  was  once  a  thick  wood.  Two  fairly  well- 
defined  trenches  run  through  the  undergrowth, 
from  which  the  sentries  of  either  side  have  been 
keeping  relentless  watch  upon  one  another,  night 
and  day,  for  many  months.  The  wood  itself  is  a 
mere  forest  of  poles:  hardly  a  branch,  and  not  a 
twig,  has  been  spared  by  the  shrapnel.  In  the  no- 
man's-land  between  the  trenches  the  poles  have 
been  reduced  to  mere  stumps  a  few  inches  high. 

It  is  behind  the  firing-trench  that  the  most 
unconventional  scene  presents  itself.  Strictly 
speaking,  there  ought  to  be  —  and  generally  is  — 
a  support-line  some  seventy  yards  in  rear  of  the 
first.   This  should  be  occupied  by  all  troops  not 


I 


WINTER  SPORTS:  VARIOUS  43 

required  in  the  firing-trench.  But  the  trench  is 
empty  —  which  is  not  altogether  surprising,  con- 
sidering that  it  is  half-full  of  water.  Its  rightful 
occupants  are  scattered  through  the  wood  behind 
—  in  dug-outs,  in  redoubts,  or  en  plein  air  — 
cooking,  washing,  or  repairing  their  residences. 
The  whole  scene  suggests  a  gipsy  encampment 
rather  than  a  fortified  post.  A  hundred  yards 
away,  through  the  trees,  you  can  plainly  discern 
the  Boche  firing-trench,  and  the  Boche  in  that 
trench  can  discern  you:  yet  never  a  shot  comes. 
It  is  true  that  bullets  are  humming  through  the  air 
and  glancing  off  trees,  but  these  are  mostly  due 
to  the  enterprise  of  distant  machine-guns  and 
rifle-batteries,  firing  from  some  position  well 
adapted  for  enfilade.  Frontal  fire  there  is  little  or 
none.  In  the  front-line  trenches,  at  least.  Brother 
Boche  has  had  enough  of  it.  His  motto  now  is, 
" Live  and  let  live! "  In  fact,  he  frequently  makes 
plaintive  statements  to  that  effect  in  the  silence 
of  night.  Especially  the  Saxons,  who  appear  to 
dislike  the  Prussians  even  more  than  ourselves. 
The  other  night  a  voice  cried  out  to  us:  —  "Don't 
shout  at  us,  Jock!  Ve  vos  der  Saxons.  Der  Prus- 
sians gomm  in  on  Vriday!" 

You  might  think,  then,  that  life  in  Willow 
Grove  would  be  a  tranquil  affair.  But  if  you  look 
up  among  the  few  remaining  branches  of  that  tall 
tree  in  the  centre  of  the  wood,  you  may  notice 
shreds  of  some  material  flapping  in  the  breeze. 
Those  are  sandbags  and  parts  of  a  uniform  —  or 
were.  Last  night,  within  the  space  of  one  hour, 
seventy-three  shells  fell  into  this  wood,  and  the 
first  of  them  registered  a  direct  hit  upon  the  dug- 


44  ALL  IN  IT 

out  of  which  the  sandbags  formed  part.  There 
were  eight  men  in  that  dug-out.  The  telephone- 
wires  were  broken  in  the  first  few  mioutes,  and 
there  was  some  delay  before  news  of  the  bombard- 
ment could  be  transmitted  back  to  Headquarters. 
Then  our  big  guns  far  in  rear  spoke  out,  until  the 
enemy's  batteries  (probably  in  response  to  an 
urgent  appeal  from  their  own  front  line)  ceased 
firing.  Thereupon  ''A"  Company,  who  at  Bobby 
Little's  behest  had  taken  immediate  cover  in  the 
water-logged  support-trench,  returned  stoUdly  to 
their  open-air  encampment  in  Willow  Grove. 
Death,  when  he  makes  the  mistake  of  raiding  your 
premises  every  day,  loses  most  of  his  terrors  and 
becomes  a  bit  of  a  bore. 

This  morning  the  Company  presents  its  normal 
appearance:  its  numbers  have  been  reduced  by 
eight  —  c'est  tout !  It  may  be  some  one  else's  turn 
to-morrow,  but  after  aU,  that  is  what  we  are  here 
for.  Anyhow,  we  are  keeping  the  Boches  out  of 
"Wipers,"  and  a  bit  over.  So  we  stretch  our  legs 
in  the  wood,  and  keep  the  flooded  trench  for  the 
next  emergency. 

Let  us  approach  a  group  of  four  which  is  squat- 
ting sociably  round  a  small  and  inadequate  fire  of 
twigs,  upon  which  four  mess-tins  are  simmering. 
The  quartette  consists  of  Privates  Cosh  and  Tosh, 
together  with  Privates  Buncle  and  Nigg,  prepar- 
ing their  midday  meal. 

"Tak'  off  yon  damp  chup,  Jimmy,"  suggested 
Tosh  to  Buncle,  who  was  officiating  as  stoker. 
"Ye  mind  what  the  Captain  said  aboot  smoke?" 

"It  wasna  the  Captain:  it  was  the  Officer," 
rejoined  Buncle  cantankerously. 


WINTER  SPORTS:  VARIOUS  45 

(It  may  here  be  explained,  at  the  risk  of  an- 
other digression,  that  no  length  of  association  or 
degree  of  intimacy  will  render  the  average  British 
soldier  familiar  with  the  names  of  his  officers.  The 
Colonel  is  ''The  CO.";  the  Second  in  Command 
is  ''The  Major";  yom*  Company  Commander  is 
"The  Captain,"  and  your  Platoon  Commander 
"The  Officer."  As  for  all  others  of  commissioned 
rank  in  the  regiment,  some  twenty-four  in  all, 
they  are  as  nought.  With  the  exception  of  the 
Quartermaster,  in  whose  shoes  each  member  of 
the  rank  and  ffie  hopes  one  day  to  stand,  they 
simply  do  not  exist.) 

"Onyway,"  pursued  the  careful  Tosh,  "he  said 
that  if  any  smoke  was  shown,  all  fires  was  tae  be 
pitten  oot.  So  mind  and  see  no'  to  get  a  cauld 
dinner  for  us  all,  Jimmy!" 

"Cauld  or  het,"  retorted  the  gentleman  ad- 
dressed, "it's  little  dinner  I'll  be  gettin'  this  day! 
And  ye  ken  fine  why!"  he  added  darkly. 

Private  Tosh  removed  a  cigarette  from  his 
lower  Up  and  sighed  patiently. 

"For  the  last  time,"  he  announced,  with  the  air 
of  a  righteous  man  suffering  long,  "I  did  not  lay 
ma  hand  on  your  dirrty  wee  bit  ham!" 

"Maybe,"  countered  the  bereaved  Buncle 
swiftly,  "you  did  not  lay  your  hand  upon  it;  but 
you  had  it  tae  your  breakfast  for  all  that,  Davie! " 

"I  never  pit  ma  hand  on  it!"  repeated  Tosh 
doggedly. 

"No?  Then  I  doot  you  gave  it  a  bit  kick  with 
your  foot,"  replied  the  inflexible  Buncle. 

"Or  got  some  other  body  tae  luft  it  for  bim!" 


46  ALL  IN  IT 

suggested  Private  Nigg,  looking  hard  at  Tosh's 
habitual  accomplice,  Cosh. 

"I  had  it  pitten  in  an  auld  envelope  from 
hame,  addressed  with  my  name,"  continued  the 
mourner.  "It  couldna  hae  got  oot  o'  that  by 
accident!" 

"Weel,"  interposed  Cosh,  with  forced  geniality, 
"it's  no  a  thing  tae  argie-bargie  aboot.  Whatever 
body  lufted  it,  it's  awa'  by  this  time.  It's  a  fine 
day,  boys!" 

This  flagrant  attempt  to  raise  the  conversation 
to  a  less  controversial  plane  met  with  no  encour- 
agement. Private  Buncle,  refusing  to  be  ap- 
peased, replied  sarcastically  — 

"Aye,  is  it?  And  it  was  a  fine  nicht  last  nicht, 
especially  when  the  shellin'  was  gaun  on!  Es- 
pecially in  number  seeven  dug-oot!" 

There  was  a  short  silence.  Number  seven  dug- 
out was  no  more,  and  its  late  occupants  were  now 
lying  under  their  waterproof  sheets,  not  a  hun- 
dred yards  away,  waiting  for  a  Padre.  Presently, 
however,  the  pacific  Cosh,  who  in  his  hours  of 
leisure  was  addicted  to  mild  philosophical  rumi- 
nation, gave  a  fresh  turn  to  the  conversation. 

"Mphm!"  he  observed  thoughtfully.  "They 
say  that  in  a  war  every  man  has  a  bullet  waiting 
for  him  some  place  or  other,  with  his  name  on  it ! 
Sooner  or  later,  he  gets  it.  Aye!  Mphm!"  He 
sucked  his  teeth  reflectively,  and  glanced  towards 
the  Field  Ambulance.   "Sooner  or  later!" 

"What  for  would  he  pit  his  name  on  it, 
Wully?"  inquired  Nigg,  who  was  not  very  quick 
at  grasping  allusions. 

"He  wouldna  pit  on  the  name  himself,"  ex- 


WINTER  SPORTS:  VARIOUS  47 

plained  the  philosopher.  "  What  I  mean  is,  there 's 
a  bullet  for  each  one  of  us  somewhere  over  there  " 
—  he. jerked  his  head  eastward  —  "in  a  Gairman 
pooch." 

''What  way  could  a  Gairman  pit  my  name  on 
a  bullet?"  demanded  Nigg  triumphantly.  "He 
doesna  ken  it!" 

"Man,"  exclaimed  Cosh,  shedding  some  of  his 
philosophic  calm,  "can  ye  no  unnerstand  that 
what  I  telled  ye  was  jist  a  mainner  of  speakin'? 
Wlien  I  said  that  a  man's  name  was  on  a  bullet,  I 
didna  mean  that  it  was  written  there." 

"Then  what  the  hell  did  ye  mean?"  inquired 
the  mystified  disciple  —  not  altogether  unreason- 
ably. 

Private  Tosh  made  a  misguided  but  well- 
meaning  attempt  to  straighten  out  the  conversa- 
tion. 

"He  means,  Sandy,"  he  explained  in  a  soothing 
voice,  "that  the  name  was  just  stampit  on  the 
bullet.  Like  —  like  —  Uke  an  identity  disc!"  he 
added  brilliantly. 

The  philosopher  clutched  his  temples  with  both 
hands. 

"I  dinna  mean  onything  o'  the  kind,"  he 
roared.  "WTiat  I  intend  tae  imply  is  this,  Sandy 
Nigg.  Some  place  over  there  there  is  a  bullet  in  a 
Gairman's  pooch,  and  one  day  that  bullet  will 
find  its  way  intil  your  insides  as  sure  as  if  your 
name  was  written  on  it!  That's  what  I  meant. 
Jist  a  mainner  of  speakin'.  Dae  ye  unnerstand  me 
thenoo?" 

But  it  was  the  injured  Buncle  who  rephed  — 
Uke  a  lightning-flash. 


48  ALL  IN  IT 

"  Never  you  fear,  Sandy,  boy  ! "  he  proclaimed 
to  his  perturbed  ally.  "  That  bullet  has  no'  gotten 
your  length  yet.  Maybe  it  never  wull.  There's 
mony  a  thing  in  this  worrld  with  one  man's  name 
on  it  that  finds  its  way  intil  the  inside  of  some 
other  man."  He  fixed  Tosh  with  a  relentless  eye. 
''A  bit  ham,  for  instance!" 

It  was  a  knock-out  blow. 

"For  ony  sake,"  muttered  the  now  demoraHsed 
Tosh,  "drop  the  subject,  and  I'll  gie  ye  a  bit  ham 
o'  ma  ain!  There's  just  time  tae  cook  it  — " 

"What  kin'  o'  a  fire  is  this?" 

A  cold  shadow  fell  upon  the  group  as  a  substan- 
tial presence  inserted  itself  between  the  debaters 
and  the  wintry  sunshine.  Corporal  Mucklewame 
was  speaking,  in  his  new  and  awful  official  voice, 
pointing  an  accusing  finger  at  the  fire,  which, 
neglected  in  the  ardour  of  discussion,  was  smoking 
fiuiously. 

"Did  you  wish  the  hale  wood  tae  be  shelled?" 
continued  Mucklewame  sarcastically.  "Put  oot 
the  fire  at  once,  or  I  '11  need  tae  bring  ye  all  before 
the  Officer.  It  is  a  cauld  dinner  ye  '11  get,  and 
ye '11  deserve  it!  " 

IV 

In  the  fire-trench  —  or  perhaps  it  would  be 
more  correct  to  call  it  the  water-trench  —  life 
may  be  short,  and  is  seldom  merry;  but  it  is  not 
often  dull.  For  one  thing,  we  are  never  idle. 

A  Boche  trench-mortar  knocks  down  several 
yards  of  your  parapet.  Straightway  your  machine- 
gunners  are  called  up,  to  cover  the  gap  until  dark- 
ness falls  and  the  gaping  wound  can  be  stanched 


WINTER  SPORTS:  VARIOUS  49 

with  fresh  sandbags.  A  mine  has  been  exploded 
upon  your  front,  leaving  a  crater  into  which  pred- 
atory Boches  will  certainly  creep  at  night.  You 
summon  a  posse  of  bombers  to  occupy  the  cavity 
and  discourage  any  such  enterprise.  The  heavens 
open,  and  there  is  a  sudden  deluge.  Immediately 
it  is  a  case  of  all  hands  to  the  trench-pump!  A 
better  plan,  if  you  have  the  advantage  of  ground, 
is  to  cut  a  culvert  under  the  parapet  and  pass  the 
inundation  on  to  a  more  deserving  quarter.  In 
any  case  you  ne^d  never  lack  healthful  exercise. 

While  upon  the  subject  of  mines,  we  may  note 
that  this  branch  of  military  industry  has  ex- 
panded of  late  to  most  unpleasant  dimensions. 
The  Boche  began  it,  of  course  —  he  always  initi- 
ates these  imdesirable  pastimes,  —  and  now  we 
have  followed  his  lead  and  caught  him  up. 

To  the  ordinary  mortal,  to  become  a  bhnd 
groper  amid  the  dark  places  of  the  earth,  in  search 
of  a  foe  whom  it  is  almost  certain  death  to  en- 
counter there,  seems  perhaps  the  most  idiotic  of 
all  the  idiotic  careers  open  to  those  who  are  idiotic 
enough  to  engage  in  modern  warfare.  However, 
many  of  us  are  as  much  at  home  below  ground  as 
above  it.  In  more  peaceful  times  we  were  accus- 
tomed to  spend  eight  hours  a  day  there,  lying  up 
against  the  "face"  in  a  tunnel  perhaps  four  feet 
high,  and  wielding  a  pick  in  an  attitude  which 
would  have  convulsed  any  ordinary  man  with 
cramp.  But  there  are  few  ordinary  men  in  "K 
(1)."  There  is  never  any  difficulty  in  obtaining 
volunteers  for  the  Tunnelling  Company. 

So  far  as  the  amateur  can  penetrate  its  mys- 


50  ALL  IN  IT 

teries,  mining,  viewed  under  our  present  heading 

—  namely,  Winter  Sports  —  offers  the  following 
advantages  to  its  participants:  — 

(1)  In  winter  it  is  much  warmer  below  the  earth 
than  upon  its  surface,  and  Thomas  Atkins  is  the 
most  confirmed  "frowster"  in  the  world. 

(2)  Critics  seldom  descend  into  mines. 

(3)  There  is  extra  pay. 

The  disadvantages  are  so  obvious  that  they 
need  not  be  enumerated  here. 

In  these  trenches  we  have  beer  engaged  upon  a 
very  pretty  game  of  subterranean  chess  for  some 
weeks  past,  and  we  are  very  much  on  our  mettle. 
We  have  some  small  leeway  to  make  up.  When 
we  took  over  these  trenches,  a  German  mine, 
which  had  been  maturing  (apparently  unheeded) 
during  the  tenancy  of  our  predecessors,  was 
exploded  two  days  after  our  arrival,  inflicting 
heavy  casualties  upon  *'  D  "  Company.  Curiously 
enough,  the  damage  to  the  trench  was  compara- 
tively slight;  but  the  tremendous  shock  of  the 
explosion  killed  more  than  one  man  by  concus- 
sion, and  brought  down  the  roofs  of  several  dug- 
outs upon  their  sleeping  occupants.  Altogether  it 
was  a  sad  business,  and  the  Battahon  swore  to  be 
avenged. 

So  they  called  upon  Lieutenant  Duff-Bertram 

—  usually  called  Bertie  the  Badger,  in  reference 
to  his  rodent  disposition  —  to  make  the  first 
move  in  the  return  match,  Bertie  and  his  trog- 
lodyte assistants  accordingly  sank  a  shaft  in  a 
retired  spot  of  their  own  selecting,  and  proceeded 
to  burrow  forward  towards  the  Boche  lines. 


WINTER  SPORTS:  VARIOUS  51 

After  certain  days  Bertie  presented  himself, 
covered  in  clay,  before  Colonel  Kemp,  and  made  a 
report. 

Colonel  Kemp  considered. 

"You  say  you  can  hear  the  enemy  working?" 
he  said. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Near?" 

"Pretty  near,  sir." 

"How  near?" 

"A  few  yards." 

"What  do  you  propose  to  do?" 

Bertie  the  Badger  —  in  private  life  he  was  a 
consulting  mining  engineer  with  a  beautiful  office 
in  Victoria  Street  and  a  nice  taste  in  spats  — 
scratched  an  earthy  nose  with  a  muddy  forefinger. 

"I  think  they  are  making  a  defensive  gallery, 
sir,"  he  announced. 

"Let  us  have  your  statement  in  the  simplest 
possible  language,  please,"  said  Colonel  Kemp. 
"Some  of  my  younger  officers,"  he  added  rather 
ingeniously,  "are  not  very  expert  in  these  mat- 
ters." 

Bertie  the  Badger  thereupon  expounded  the 
situation  with  solemn  relish.  By  a  defensive  gal- 
lery, it  appeared  that  he  meant  a  lateral  tunnel 
running  parallel  with  the  trench-line,  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  intercept  any  tunnel  pushed  out  by 
the  British  miners. 

"And  what  do  you  suggest  doing  to  this  Picca- 
dilly Tube  of  theirs?"  inquired  the  Colonel. 

"I  could  dig  forward  and  break  into  it,  sir," 
suggested  Bertie. 


52  ALL  IN  IT 

"That  seems  a  move  in  the  right  direction," 
said  the  Colonel.  "But  won't  the  Boche  try  to 
prevent  you?" 

"Yes,  SU-." 

"How?" 

"He  will  wait  until  the  head  of  my  tunnel  gets 
near  enough,  and  then  blow  it  in." 

"That  would  be  very  tiresome  of  him.  What 
other  alternatives  are  open  to  you?" 

"I  could  get  as  near  as  possible,  sir,"  re- 
plied Bertie  calmly,  "and  then  blow  up  his  gal- 
lery." 

"That  sounds  better.  Well,  exercise  your  own 
discretion,  and  don't  get  blown  up  imless  you 
particularly  want  to.  And  above  all,  be  quite  sure 
that  while  you  are  amusing  yourself  with  the 
Piccadilly  Tube,  the  wily  Boche  is  n't  burrowing 
past  you,  and  under  my  parapet,  by  the  Bakerloo! 
Good  luck!  Report  any  fresh  development  at 
once." 

So  Bertie  the  Badger  returned  once  more  to  his 
native  element  and  proceeded  to  exercise  his  dis- 
cretion. This  took  the  form  of  continuing  his  ag- 
gressive tunnel  in  the  direction  of  the  Boche  de- 
fensive gallery.  Next  morning,  encouraged  by  the 
absolute  silence  of  the  enemy's  miners,  he  made  a 
farther  and  final  push,  which  actually  landed  him 
in  the  "Piccadilly  Tube"  itself. 

"This  is  a  nun  go,  Howie!"  he  observed  in  a 
low  voice  to  his  corporal.  "A  long,  beautiful  gal- 
lery, five  by  four,  lined  with  wood,  electrically 
lighted,  with  every  modem  convenience  —  and 
not  a  Boche  in  it!" 


WINTER  SPORTS:  VARIOUS  53 

"Varra  bad  discipline,  sir!"  replied  Corporal 
Howie  severely. 

"Are  you  sure  it  is  n't  a  trap?" 

"It  may  be,  sirr;  but  I  doot  the  oversman  is 
awa'  to  his  dinner,  and  the  men  are  back  in  the 
shaft,  doing  naething."  Corporal  Howie  had  been 
an  "oversman"  himself,  and  knew  something  of 
subterranean  labour  problems. 

"Well,  if  you  are  right,  the  Boche  must  be 
getting  demorahsed.  It  is  not  like  him  to  present 
us  with  openings  like  this.  However,  the  first 
thing  to  do  is  to  distribute  a  few  souvenirs  along 
the  gallery.  Pass  the  word  back  for  the  stufif. 
Meanwhile  I  shall  endeavour  to  test  your  theory 
about  the  oversman's  dinner-hour.  I  am  going  to 
creep  along  and  have  a  look  at  the  Boche  en- 
trance to  the  Tube.  It's  down  there,  at  the  south 
end  of  his  gallery,  I  think.  I  can  see  a  break  in  the 
wood  lining.  If  you  hear  any  shooting,  you  will 
know  that  the  dinner-hour  is  over!" 

At  the  end  of  half  an  hour  the  Piccadilly  Tube 
was  lined  with  sufficient  explosive  material  to 
ensure  the  permanent  closing  of  the  line.  Still  no 
Boche  had  been  seen  or  heard. 

"Now,  Howie,"  said  Bertie  the  Badger,  finger- 
ing the  fuse," "  what  about  it?  " 

"About  what,  sirr?"  inquired  Howie,  who  was 
not  quite  au  fait  with  current  catch-phrases. 

"Are  we  going  to  touch  off  all  this  stuff  now, 
and  clear  out,  or  are  we  going  to  wait  and  see?" 

"I  would  Uke  fine — "began  the  Corporal 
wistfuUy. 


54  ALL  IN  IT 

"So  would  I,"  said  Bertie.  "Tell  the  men  to 
get  back  and  out;  and  you  and  I  will  hold  on  until 
the  guests  return  from  the  banquet." 

"Varra  good,  sirr." 

For  another  half-hour  the  pair  waited  —  Bertie 
the  Badger  like  a  dog  in  its  kennel,  with  his  head 
protruding  into  the  hostile  gallery,  while  his  faith- 
ful henchman  crouched  close  behind  him.  Deathly 
stillness  reigned,  relieved  only  by  an  occasional 
thud,  as  a  shell  or  trench-mortar  bomb  exploded 
upon  the  ground  far  above  their  heads. 

"I'm  going  to  have  another  look  round  that 
comer,"  said  Bertie  at  last.  "Hold  on  to  the 
fuse." 

He  handed  the  end  of  the  fuse  to  his  subordi- 
nate, and  having  wormed  his  way  out  of  the  tun- 
nel, proceeded  cautiously  on  all-fours  along  the 
gallery.  On  his  way  he  passed  the  electric  light. 
He  twisted  off  the  bulb  and  crawled  on  in  the 
dark. 

Feeling  his  way  by  the  east  wall  of  the  gallery, 
he  came  presently  to  the  break  in  the  woodwork. 
Very  slowly,  lying  fiat  on  his  stomach  now,  he 
wriggled  forward  until  his  head  came  opposite  the 
opening.  A  low  passage  ran  away  to  his  left,  ob- 
viously leading  back  to  the  Boche  trenches. 
Three  yards  from  the  entrance  the  passage  bent 
sharply  to  the  right,  thus  interrupting  the  Une  of 
sight. 

"  There 's  a  light  burning  just  round  that  bend," 
said  Bertie  the  Badger  to  himself.  "I  wonder  if  it 
would  be  rash  to  go  on  and  have  a  look  at  it!" 

He  was  still  straining  at  this  gnat,  when  sud- 


WINTER  SPORTS:  VARIOUS  53 

denly  his  elbow  encountered  a  shovel  which  was 
leaning  against  the  wall  of  the  gallery.  It  tumbled 
down  with  a  clatter  almost  stunning.  Next  mo- 
ment a  hand  came  round  the  bend  of  the  tunnel 
and  fired  a  revolver  almost  into  the  explorer's 
face. 

Another  shot  rang  out  directly  after. 

The  devoted  Howie,  hastening  to  the  rescue, 
collided  sharply  with  a  sohd  body  crawling  to- 
wards him  in  the  darkness. 

"Curse  you,  Howie!"  said  the  voice  of  Bertie 
the  Badger,  with  refreshing  earnestness.  "Get 
back  out  of  this!  Where's  your  fuse?" 

The  pair  scrambled  back  into  their  own  tunnel, 
and  the  end  of  the  fuse  was  soon  recovered.  Al- 
most simultaneously  three  more  revolver-shots 
rang  out. 

"I  thought  I  had  fixed  that  Boche,"  mur- 
mured Bertie  in  a  disappointed  voice.  "I  heard 
him  grunt  when  my  bullet  hit  him.  Perhaps  this 
is  another  one  —  or  several.  Keep  back  in  the 
tunnel,  Howie,  confound  you,  and  don't  breathe 
up  my  sleeve!  They  are  firing  straight  along  the 
gallery  now.  I  will  return  the  compliment. 
Ouch!" 

"What's  the  matter,  sirr?"  inquired  the  anx- 
ious voice  of  Howie,  as  his  officer,  who  had  tried 
to  fire  round  the  corner  with  his  left  hand,  gave  a 
sudden  exclamation  and  rolled  over  upon  his  side. 

"I  must  have  been  hit  the  first  time,"  he  ex- 
plained.  "Collar-bone,  I  think.   I  didn't  know, 
till  I  rested  my  weight  on  my  left  elbow.  .  .  . 
Howie,  I  am  going  to  exercise  my  discretion  again. 


56  ALL  IN  IT 

Somebody  in  this  gallery  is  going  to  be  blown  up 
presently,  and  if  you  and  I  don't  get  a  move  on, 
p.d.q.,  it  will  be  us!  Give  me  the  fuse-hghter,  and 
wait  for  me  at  the  foot  of  the  shaft.  Quick!" 

Very  reluctantly  the  Corporal  obeyed.  How- 
ever, he  was  in  due  course  joined  at  the  foot  of  the 
shaft  by  Bertie  the  Badger,  groaning  profanely; 
and  the  pair  made  their  way  to  the  upper  regions 
with  all  possible  speed.  After  a  short  interval,  a 
sudden  rumbling,  followed  by  a  heavy  explosion, 
announced  that  the  fuse  had  done  its  work,  and 
that  the  Piccadilly  Tube,  the  fruit  of  many  toil- 
some weeks  of  Boche  calculation  and  labom*,  had 
been  permanently  closed  to  traffic  of  all  descrip- 
tions. 

Bertie  the  Badger  received  a  Mihtary  Cross, 
and  his  abettor  the  D.C.M. 


But  the  newest  and  most  fashionable  form  of 
winter  sport  this  season  is  The  Flying  Matinee. 

This  entertainment  takes  place  during  the 
small  hours  of  the  morning,  and  is  strictly  limited 
to  a  duration  of  ten  minutes  —  quite  long  enough 
for  most  matinees,  too.  The  actors  are  furnished 
by  a  unit  of  "K  (1) "  and  the  r61e  of  audience  is 
assigned  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  Boche  trenches 
immediately  opposite.  These  matin6es  have 
proved  an  enormous  success,  but  require  most 
careful  rehearsal. 

It  is  two  A.M.,  and  comparative  peace  reigns  up 
and  down  the  line.  The  rain  of  star-shells,  always 
prodigal  in  the  early  evening,  has  died  down  to  a 


WINTER  SPORTS:  VARIOUS  57 

mere  drizzle.  Working  and  fatigue  parties,  which 
have  been  busy  since  darkness  set  in  at  five 
o'clock,  —  rebuilding  parapets,  repairing  wire, 
carrying  up  rations,  and  patrolHng  debatable 
areas,  —  have  ceased  their  labours,  and  are  sleep- 
ing heavily  until  the  coming  of  the  wintry  dawn 
shall  rouse  them,  grimy  and  shivering,  to  another 
day's  unpleasantness. 

Private  Hans  Dumpkopf ,  on  sentry  duty  in  the 
Boche  firing-trench,  gazes  mechanically  over  the 
parapet;  but  the  night  is  so  dark  and  the  wind  so 
high  that  it  is  difficult  to  see  and  quite  impossible 
to  hear  anything.  He  shelters  himself  beside  a 
traverse,  and  waits  patiently  for  his  reUef.  It 
begins  to  rain,  and  Hans,  after  cautiously  recon- 
noitring the  other  side  of  the  traverse,  to  guard 
against  prowling  sergeants,  sidles  a  few  yards  to 
his  right  beneath  the  friendly  cover  of  an  impro- 
vised roof  of  corrugated  iron  sheeting,  laid  across 
the  trench  from  parapet  to  parados.  It  is  quite 
dry  here,  and  comparatively  warm.  Hans  closes 
his  eyes  for  a  moment,  and  heaves  a  gentle 
sigh. 

Next  moment  there  comes  a  rush  of  feet  in  the 
darkness,  followed  by  a  metallic  clang,  as  of  hob- 
nailed boots  on  metal.  Hans,  lying  prostrate  and 
half-stunned  beneath  the  galvanised  iron  sheeting, 
which,  dislodged  from  its  former  position  by  the 
impact  of  a  heavy  body  descending  from  above, 
now  forms  part  of  the  flooring  of  the  trench,  is 
suddenly  aware  that  this  same  trench  is  full  of 
men  —  rough,  uncultiu'ed  men,  clad  in  short  pet- 
ticoats and  the  skins  of  wild  animals,  and  armed 


58  ALL  IN  IT 

with  knobkerries.  The  Flying  Matin6e  has  be- 
gun, and  Hans  Dumpkopf  has  got  in  by  the  early 
door. 

Each  of  the  performers  —  there  are  fifty  of 
them  all  told  —  has  his  part  to  play,  and  plays 
it  with  commendable  aplomb.  One,  having  dis- 
armed an  unresisting  prisoner,  assists  him  over 
the  parapet  and  escorts  him  afifectionately  to  his 
new  home.  Another  clubs  a  recalcitrant  foeman 
over  the  head  with  a  knobkerry,  and  having  thus 
reduced  him  to  a  more  amenable  frame  of  mind, 
hoists  him  over  the  parapet  and  drags  him  after 
his  "kamarad." 

Other  parties  are  told  off  to  deal  with  the  dug- 
outs. As  a  rule,  the  occupants  of  these  are  too 
dazed  to  make  any  resistance,  —  to  be  quite 
frank,  the  individual  Boche  in  these  days  seems 
rather  to  welcome  captivity  than  otherwise,  — 
and  presently  more  of  the  "bag"  are  on  their  way 
to  the  British  lines. 

But  by  this  time  the  performance  is  drawing  to 
a  close.  The  alarm  has  been  communicated  to  the 
adjacent  sections  of  the  trench,  and  preparations 
for  the  ejection  of  the  intruders  are  being  hurried 
forward.  That  is  to  say,  German  bombers  are 
collecting  upon  either  flank,  with  the  intention  of 
bombing  "inwards"  until  the  impudent  foe  has 
been  destroyed  or  evicted.  As  we  are  not  here  to 
precipitate  a  general  action,  but  merely  to  round 
up  a  few  prisoners  and  do  as  much  damage  as  pos- 
sible in  ten  minutes,  we  hasten  to  the  finale.  As  in 
most  finales,  one's  actions  now  become  less  re- 
strained —  but,  from  a  brutal  point  of  view,  more 


WINTER  SPORTS:  VARIOUS  69 

effective.  A  couple  of  hand-grenades  are  thrown 
into  any  dug-out  which  has  not  yet  surrendered. 
(The  Canadians,  who  make  quite  a  speciaUty  of 
flying  matinees,  are  accustomed,  we  understand, 
as  an  artistic  variant  to  this  practice,  to  fasten  an 
electric  torch  along  the  barrel  of  a  rifle,  and  so 
illuminate  their  lurking  targets  while  they  shoot.) 
A  sharp  order  passes  along  the  line;  every  one 
scrambles  out  of  the  trench ;  and  the  troupe  makes 
its  way  back,  before  the  enemy  in  the  adjacent 
trenches  have  really  wakened  up,  to  the  place 
from  which  it  came.  The  matinee,  so  far  as  the 
actors  are  concerned,  is  over. 

Not  so  the  audience.  The  avenging  host  is 
just  getting  busy.  The  bombing-parties  are  now 
marshalled  and  proceed  with  awful  solemnity 
and  Teutonic  thoroughness  to  clear  the  violated 
trench.  The  procedure  of  a  bombing-party  is 
stereotyped.  They  begin  by  lobbing  hand-gre- 
nades over  the  first  traverse  into  the  first  bay. 
After  the  ensuing  explosion,  they  trot  round  the 
traverse  in  single  file  and  occupy  the  bay.  This 
manoeuvre  is  then  repeated  until  the  entire  trench 
is  cleared.  The  whole  operation  requires  good 
discipline,  considerable  courage,  and  carefully 
timed  co-operation  with  the  other  bombing- 
party.  In  all  these  attributes  the  Boche  excels. 
But  one  thing  is  essential  to  the  complete  success 
of  his  efforts,  and  that  is  the  presence  of  the  en- 
emy. When,  after  methodically  desolating  each 
bay  in  turn  (and  incidentally  killing  their  own 
wounded  in  the  process),  the  two  parties  meet 
midway  —  practically  on  top  of  the  unfortunate 


60  ALL  IN  IT 

Hans  Dumpkopf ,  who  is  still  giving  an  imitation 
of  a  tortoise  in  a  corrugated  shell  —  it  is  discov- 
ered that  the  beautifully  executed  counter-attack 
has  achieved  nothing  but  the  recapture  of  an  en- 
tirely empty  trench.  The  birds  have  flown,  taking 
their  prey  with  them.  Hans  is  the  sole  survivor, 
and  after  hearing  what  his  officer  has  to  say  to 
him  upon  the  subject,  bitterly  regrets  the  fact. 

Meanwhile,  in  the  British  trenches  a  few  yards 
away,  the  box-office  returns  are  being  made  up. 
These  take  the  form,  firstly,  of  some  fom*teen 
prisoners,  including  one  indignant  officer  —  he 
had  been  pulled  from  his  dug-out  half  asleep  and 
frog-marched  across  the  British  lines  by  two  pri- 
vate soldiers  well  qualified  to  appreciate  the  rich- 
ness of  his  language  —  together  with  various  sou- 
venirs in  the  way  of  arms  and  accoutrements;  and 
secondly,  of  the  knowledge  that  at  least  as  many 
more  of  the  enemy  had  been  left  permanently 
incapacitated  for  further  warfare  in  the  dug-outs. 
A  grim  and  grisly  drama  when  you  come  to  criti- 
cise it  in  cold  blood,  but  not  without  a  certain 
humour  of  its  own  —  and  most  demoralising  for 
Brother  Boche! 

But  he  is  a  slow  pupil.  He  regards  the  profes- 
sion of  arms  and  the  pursuit  of  war  with  such  in- 
tense and  solemn  reverence  that  he  cannot  con- 
ceive how  any  one  calling  himself  a  soldier  can  be 
so  criminally  frivolous  as  to  write  a  farce  round 
the  subject  —  much  less  present  the  farce  at  a 
Flying  Matinee.  That  possibly  explains  why  the 
following  stately  paragraph  appeared  a  few  days 
later  in  the  periodical  communique  which  keeps 


WINTER  SPORTS:  VARIOUS  61 

the  German  nation  in  touch  with  its  Army's 
latest  exploits:  — 

During  the  night  of  Dec.  4ih-5th  attempts  were 
made  by  strong  detachments  of  the  enemy  to  pene- 
trate our  line  near  Sloozleschump,  S.E.  of  Ypres. 
The  attack  failed  utterly. 

"And  they  don't  even  realise  that  it  was  only  a 
leg-pull!"  commented  the  Company  Commander 
who  had  stage-managed  the  affair.  "These  people 
simply  don't  deserve  to  have  entertainments  ar- 
ranged for  them  at  all.  Well,  we  must  pull  the 
limb  again,  that's  all!" 

And  it  was  so. 


IV 

THE   PUSH  THAT  FAILED 
I 

"I  WONDER  if  they  really  mean  business  this 
time,"  surmised  that  youthful  Company  Com- 
mander, Temporary  Captain  Bobby  Little,  to 
Major  Wagstaflfe. 

"It  sounds  like  it,"  said  Wagstaffe,  as  another 
salvo  of  "whizz-bangs"  broke  like  inflammatory 
surf  upon  the  front-line  trenches.  "Intermittent 
strafes  we  are  used  to,  but  this  all-day  perform- 
ance seems  to  indicate  that  the  Boche  is  really 
getting  down  to  it  for  once.  The  whole  proceeding 
reminds  me  of  nothing  so  much  as  our  own  '  artil- 
lery preparation'  before  the  big  push  at  Loos." 

"Then  you  think  the  Boches  are  going  to  make 
a  push  of  their  own?" 

"I  do;  and  I  hope  it  will  be  a  good  fat  one. 
When  it  comes,  I  fancy  we  shall  be  able  to  put  up 
something  rather  pretty  in  the  way  of  a  defence. 
The  Salient  is  stiff  with  guns  —  I  don't  think  the 
Boche  quite  realises  how  stiff!  And  we  owe  the 
swine  something!"  he  added  through  his  teeth. 

There  was  a  pause  in  the  conversation.  You 
cannot  hold  the  Salient  for  three  months  without 
paying  for  the  distinction ;  and  the  regiment  had 
paid  its  full  share.  Not  so  much  in  numbers,  per- 
haps, as  in  quahty.  Stray  bullets,  whistling  up 
and  down  the  trenches,  coming  even  obliquely 


THE  PUSH  THAT  FAILED  63 

from  the  rear,  had  exacted  most  grievous  toll. 
Shells  and  trench-mortar  bombs,  taking  us  in 
flank,  had  extinguished  many  valuable  lives.  At 
this  time  nothing  but  the  best  seemed  to  satisfy 
the  Fates.  One  day  it  would  be  a  trusted  colour- 
sergeant,  on  another  a  couple  of  particularly 
promising  young  corporals.  Only  last  week  the 
Adjutant  —  athlete,  scholar,  born  soldier,  and 
very  lovable  schoolboy,  all  most  perfectly  blended 
—  had  fallen  mortally  wounded,  on  his  morning 
round  of  the  fire-trenches,  by  a  bullet  which  came 
from  nowhere.  He  was  the  subject  of  Wag- 
staffe's  reference. 

"Is  it  not  possible,"  suggested  Mr.  Waddell, 
who  habitually  considered  all  questions  from 
every  possible  point  of  view,  "that  this  bombard- 
ment has  been  specially  initiated  by  the  German 
authorities,  in  order  to  impress  upon  their  own 
troops  a  warning  that  there  must  be  no  Christmas 
truce  this  year?" 

"If  that  is  the  Kaiser's  Christmas  greeting  to 
his  loving  followers,"  observed  Wagstaffe  drily, 
"I  think  he  might  safely  have  left  it  to  us  to 
deliver  it!" 

"They  say,"  interposed  Bobby  Little,  "that 
the  Kaiser  is  here  himself." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

" It  was  rumoured  in ' Comic  Cuts.' "  ("Comic 
Cuts"  is  the  stately  Summary  of  War  Intelli- 
gence issued  daily  from  Olympus.) 

"If  that  is  true,"  said  Wagstaffe,  "they  proba- 
bly will  attack.  All  this  fuss  and  bobbery  suggest 
something  of  the  kind.   They  remind  me  of  the 


64  ALL  IN  IT 

commotion  which  used  to  precede  Arthur  Rob- 
erts's entrance  in  the  old  days  of  Gaiety  burlesque. 
Before  your  time,  I  fancy,  Bobby?" 

"Yes,"  said  Bobby  modestly.  "I  first  found 
touch  with  the  Gaiety  over  'Our  Miss  Gibbs.' 
And  I  was  quite  a  kid  even  then,"  he  added,  with 
characteristic  honesty.  "But  what  about  Arthur 
Roberts?" 

"Some  forty  or  fifty  years  ago,"  explained 
Wagstaffe,  "when  I  was  in  the  habit  of  frequent- 
ing places  of  amusement,  Arthur  Roberts  was 
leading  man  at  the  establishment  to  which  I  have 
referred.  He  usually  came  on  about  haK-past 
eight,  just  as  the  show  was  beginning  to  lose  its 
first  wind.  His  entrance  was  a  most  tremendous 
affair.  First  of  all  the  entire  chorus  blew  in  from 
the  wings  —  about  sixty  of  them  in  ten  seconds  — 
saying  "Hurrah,  hurrah,  girls!"  or  something 
rather  unusual  of  that  kind;  after  which  minor 
characters  rushed  on  from  opposite  sides  and  told 
one  another  that  Arthur  Roberts  was  coming. 
Then  the  band  played,  and  everybody  began  to 
tell  the  audience  about  it  in  song.  When  every- 
thing was  in  full  blast,  the  great  man  would  ap- 
pear—  stepping  out  of  a  bathing-machine,  or 
falling  out  of  a  hansom-cab,  or  sliding  down  a 
chute  on  a  toboggan.  He  was  assisted  to  his  feet 
by  the  chorus,  and  then  proceeded  to  ginger  the 
show  up.  Well,  that's  how  this  present  entertain- 
ment impresses  me.  All  this  noise  and  obstrep- 
erousness  are  leading  up  to  one  thing  —  Kaiser 
Bill's  entrance.  Preliminary  bombardment  — 
that's  the  chorus  getting  to  work!  Minor  charac- 


THE  PUSH  THAT  FAILED  65 

ters  —  the  trench-mortars  —  spread  the  glad 
news!  Band  and  chorus  —  that's  the  grand  at- 
tack working  up  to  boiling-point!  Finally,  pre- 
ceded by  clouds  of  gas,  the  Arch-Comedian  in 
person,  supported  by  spectacled  coryphees  in 
brass  hats!  How's  that  for  a  Christmas  panto- 
mime?" 

"Rotten!"  said  Bobby,  as  a  shell  sang  over  the 
parapet  and  burst  in  the  wood  behind. 

n 

Kaiser  or  no  Kaiser,  Major  Wagstaffe's  extrav- 
agant analogy  held  good.  As  Christmas  drew 
nearer,  the  band  played  louder  and  faster;  the 
chorus  swelled  higher  and  shriller;  and  it  became 
finally  apparent  that  something  (or  somebody)  of 
portentous  importance  was  directing  the  storm. 

Between  six  and  seven  next  morning,  the  Bat- 
talion, which  had  stood  to  arms  all  night,  Ufted 
up  its  heavy  head  and  sniffed  the  misty  dawn- 
wind  —  an  east  wind  —  dubiously.  Next  moriaent 
gongs  were  clanging  up  and  down  the  trench,  and 
men  were  tearing  open  the  satchels  which  con- 
tained their  anti-gas  helmets. 

Major  Wagstaffe,  who  had  been  sent  up  from 
Battalion  Headquarters  to  take  general  charge  of 
affairs  in  the  firing-trench,  buttoned  the  bottom 
edge  of  his  helmet  well  inside  his  collar  and  clam- 
bered up  on  the  firing-step  to  take  stock  of  the 
position.  He  crouched  low,  for  a  terrific  bombard- 
ment was  in  progress,  and  shells  were  almost  graz- 
ing the  parapet. 

Presently  he  was  joined  by  a  slim  young  officer 


66  ALL  IN  IT 

similarly  disguised.  It  was  the  Commander  of 
"A"  Company.  Wagstaffe  placed  his  head  close 
to  Bobby's  left  ear,  and  shouted  through  the 
cloth  — 

"  We  shan't  feel  this  gas  much.  They  're  letting 
it  off  higher  up  the  line.   Look!" 

Bobby,  laboriously  inhaling  the  tainted  air  in- 
side his  helmet,  —  being  preserved  from  a  gas 
attack  is  only  one  degree  less  unpleasant  than 
being  gassed,  —  turned  his  goggles  northward. 

In  the  dim  light  of  the  breaking  day  he  could 
discern  a  greenish-yellow  cloud  rolling  across  from 
the  Boche  trenches  on  his  left. 

"Will  they  attack?"  he  bellowed. 

Wagstaffe  nodded  his  head,  and  then  cautiously 
unbuttoned  his  collar  and  rolled  up  the  front  of 
his  helmet.  Then,  after  delicately  sampling  the 
atmosphere  by  a  cautious  sniff,  he  removed  his 
helmet  altogether.  Bobby  followed  his  example. 
The  air  was  not  by  any  means  so  pure  as  might 
have  been  desired,  but  it  was  infinitely  preferable 
to  that  inside  a  gas-helmet. 

"Nothing  to  signify,"  pronounced  Wagstaffe. 
"We're  only  getting  the  edge  of  it.  Sergeant,  pass 
down  that  men  may  roll  up  their  helmets,  but 
must  keep  them  on  their  heads.  Now,  Bobby, 
things  are  getting  interesting.  Will  they  attack, 
or  will  they  not?" 

"What  do  you  think?"  asked  Bobby. 

"They  are  certainly  going  to  attack  farther 
north.  The  Boche  does  not  waste  gas  as  a  rule  — 
not  this  sort  of  gas!  And  I  think  he'll  attack  here 
too.  The  only  reason  why  he  has  not  switched  on 


THE  PUSH  THAT  FAILED  67 

our  anaesthetic  is  that  the  wind  is  n't  quite  right 
for  this  bit  of  the  Une.  I  think  it  is  going  to  be  a 
general  push.  Bobby,  have  a  look  through  this 
sniper's  loophole.  Can  you  see  any  bayonets 
twinkling  in  the  Boche  trenches?" 

Bobby  applied  an  eye  to  the  loophole. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  can  see  them.  Those 
trenches  must  be  packed  with  men." 

"Absolutely  stiff  with  them,"  agreed  Wag- 
staff  e,  getting  out  his  revolver.  "We  shall  be  in 
for  it  presently.  Are  your  fellows  all  ready, 
Bobby?" 

The  youthful  Captain  ran  his  eye  along  the 
trench,  where  his  Company,  with  magazines 
loaded  and  bayonets  fixed,  were  grimly  awaiting 
the  onset.  There  had  been  an  onset  similar  to  this, 
with  the  same  green,  nauseous  accompaniment,  in 
precisely  the  same  spot  eight  months  before, 
which  had  broken  the  line  and  penetrated  for  four 
miles.  There  it  had  been  stayed  by  a  forlorn  hope, 
gasping,  choking,  but  indomitable  —  and  disas- 
ter had  been  most  gloriously  retrieved.  What 
was  going  to  happen  this  time?  One  thing  was 
certain :  the  day  of  stink-pots  was  over. 

"When  do  you  think  they'll  attack?"  shouted 
Bobby  to  Wagstaffe,  battling  against  the  noise  of 
bursting  shells. 

"  Quite  soon  —  in  a  minute  or  two.  Their  guns 
will  stop  directly  —  to  lift  their  sights  and  set  up 
a  barrage  behind  us.  Then,  perhaps  the  Boche 
will  step  over  his  parapet.  Perhaps  not!" 

The  last  sentence  rang  out  with  uncanny  dis- 
tinctness, for  the  German  guns  with  one  accord 


68  ALL  IN  IT 

had  ceased  firing.  For  a  full  two  minutes  there 
was  absolute  silence,  while  the  bayonets  in  the  op- 
posite trenches  twinkled  with  tenfold  intent. 

Then,  from  every  point  in  the  great  Salient  of 
Ypres,  the  British  guns  repHed. 

Possibly  the  Great  General  Staff  at  Berlin  had 
been  misinformed  as  to  the  exact  strength  of 
the  British  Artillery.  Possibly  they  had  been  in- 
formed by  their  Intelligence  Department'  that 
Trades  Unionism,  had  ensured  that  a  thoroughly 
inadequate  supply  of  shells  was  to  hand  in  the 
SaUent.  Or  possibly  they  had  merely  decided, 
after  the  playful  habit  of  General  Staffs,  to  let  the 
infantry  in  the  trenches  take  their  chance  of  any 
retaHation  that  might  be  forthcoming. 

Whatever  these  great  men  were  expecting,  it  is 
highly  improbable  that  they  expected  that  which 
arrived.  Suddenly  the  British  batteries  spoke 
out,  and  they  all  spoke  together.  In  the  space  of 
four  minutes  they  deposited  thirty  thousand  high- 
explosive  shells  in  the  Boche  front-line  trenches 
—  yea,  distributed  the  same  accurately  and 
evenly  along  all  that  crowded  arc.  Then  they 
paused,  as  suddenly  as  they  began,  while  British 
riflemen  and  machine-gunners  bent  to  their  work. 

But  few  received  the  order  to  fire.  Here  and 
there  a  wave  of  men  broke  over  the  German  para- 
pet and  rolled  towards  the  British  hues  —  only 
to  be  rolled  back  crumpled  up  by  machine-guns. 
Never  once  was  the  goal  reached.  The  great 
Christmas  attack  was  over.  After  months  of 
weary  waiting  and  foohsh  recrimination,  that 
exasperating  race  of  bad  starters  but  great  stay- 


THE  PUSH  THAT  FAILED  69 

ers,  the  British  people,  had  dehvered  ''the  goods," 
and  made  it  possible  for  their  soldiers  to  speak 
with  the  enemy  in  the  gate  upon  equal  —  nay, 
superior,  terms. 

''Is  that  all?"  asked  Bobby  Little,  peering  out 
over  the  parapet,  a  little  awe-struck,  at  the  devas- 
tation over  the  way. 

"That isall," said Wagstaffe, "or  I'ma  Boche! 
There  will  be  much  noise  and  some  irregular 
scrapping  for  days,  but  the  tin  lid  has  been  placed 
upon  the  grand  attack.  The  great  Christmas 
Victory  is  off!" 

Then  he  added,  thoughtfully,  referring  appar- 
ently to  the  star  performer:  — 

"We  have  been  and  spoiled  his  entrance  for 
him,  have  n't  we?" 


V 

UNBENDING  THE  BOW 
I 

There  is  a  certain  type  of  English  country-house 
female  who  is  said  to  "Uve  in  her  boxes."  That  is 
to  say,  she  appears  to  possess  no  home  of  her  own, 
but  flits  from  one  indulgent  roof- tree  to  another; 
and  owing  to  the  fact  that  she  is  invariably  put 
into  a  bedroom  whose  wardrobe  is  full  of  her  host- 
ess's superannuated  ball-frocks  and  winter  fm-s, 
never  knows  what  it  is  to  have  all  her  "things" 
unpacked  at  once. 

Well,  we  out  here  cannot  be  said  to  Uve  in  our 
boxes,  for  we  do  not  possess  any;  but  we  do  most 
undoubtedly  hve  in  oiir  haversacks  and  packs. 
And  this  brings  us  to  the  matter  in  hand  — 
namely,  so-called  "Rest-Billets."  The  whole  of 
the  hinterland  of  this  great  trench-line  is  full  of 
tired  men,  seeking  for  a  place  to  he  down  in,  and 
Uving  in  their  boxes  when  they  find  one. 

At  present  we  are  indulging  in  such  a  period  of 
repose;  and  we  venture  to  think  that  on  the  whole 
we  have  earned  it.  Our  last  rest  was  in  high  sum- 
mer, when  we  lay  about  under  an  August  sun  in 
the  district  round  B^thune,  and  called  down 
curses  upon  all  flying  and  creeping  insects.  Since 
then  we  have  undergone  certain  so-called  "oper- 
ations" in  the  neighbourhood  of  Loos,  and  have 
put  in  more  than  three  months  in  the  Sahent  of 


UNBENDING  THE  BOW  71 

Ypres.  As  that  devout  adherent  of  the  Roman 
faith,  Private  Reilly,  of  ''B"  Company,  put  it  to 
his  spiritual  adviser  — 

"I  doot  we'll  get  excused  a  good  slice  of  Pur- 
gatory for  this,  father!" 

We  came  out  of  the  SaHent  just  before  Christ- 
mas, in  the  midst  of  the  mutual  unpleasantness 
arising  out  of  the  grand  attack  upon  the  British 
hne  which  was  to  have  done  so  much  to  restore 
the  waning  confidence  of  the  Hun.  It  was  meant 
to  be  a  big  affair  —  a  most  majestic  victory,  in 
fact;  but  our  new  gas-helmets  nullified  the  gas, 
and  our  new  shells  paralysed  the  attack;  so  the 
Third  Battle  of  Ypres  was  not  yet.  Still,  as  I  say, 
there  was  considerable  unpleasantness  all  round; 
and  we  were  escorted  upon  our  homeward  way, 
from  Sanctuary  Wood  to  Zillebeke,  and  from 
Zillebeke  to  Dickebusche,  by  a  swarm  of  angry 
and  disappointed  shells. 

Next  day  we  found  ourselves  many  miles  be- 
hind the  firing-line,  once  more  in  France,  with  a 
whole  month's  hoUday  in  prospect,  comfortably 
conscious  that  one  could  walk  round  a  corner  or 
look  over  a  wall  without  preliminary  reconnais- 
sance or  subsequent  extirpation. 

As  for  the  holiday  itself,  unreasonable  persons 
are  not  lacking  to  point  out  that  it  is  of  the  bus- 
man's variety.  It  is  true  that  we  are  no  longer 
face  to  face  with  the  foe,  but  we  —  or  rather,  the 
authorities  —  make  believe  that  we  are.  We  wage 
mimic  warfare  in  full  marching  order;  we  fire  rifles 
and  machine-guns  upon  improvised  ranges;  we 
perform   hazardous   feats   with   bombs   and   a 


72  ALL  IN  IT 

dummy  trench.  More  galling  still,  we  are  back  in 
the  region  of  squad-drill,  physical  exercises,  and 
handling  of  arms  —  horrors  of  our  childhood 
which  we  thought  had  been  left  safely  interned  at 
Aldershot. 

But  the  authorities  are  wise.  The  regiment  is 
stiff  and  out  of  condition:  it  is  suffering  from 
moral  and  intellectual  "trench-feet."  Heavy 
drafts  have  introduced  a  large  and  untempered 
element  into  our  composition.  Many  of  the 
subalterns  are  obviously  "new-jined"  —  as  the 
shrewd  old  lady  of  Ayr  once  observed  of  the  ribi- 
cund  gentleman  at  the  temperance  meeting. 
Their  men  hardly  know  them  or  one  another 
by  sight.  The  regiment  must  be  moulded  anew, 
and  its  lustre  restored  by  the  beneficent  process 
vulgarly  known  as  "spit  and  pohsh."  So  every 
morning  we  apply  ourselves  with  thoroughness,  if 
not  enthusiasm,  to  tasks  which  remind  us  of  last 
winter's  training  upon  the  Hampshire  chalk. 

But  the  afternoon  and  evening  are  a  different 
story  altogether.  If  we  were  busy  in  the  morning, 
we  are  busier  still  for  the  rest  of  the  day.  There  is 
football  galore,  for  we  have  to  get  through  a  com- 
plete series  of  Divisional  cup-ties  in  four  weeks. 
There  is  also  a  Brigade  boxing-tournament.  (No, 
that  was  not  where  Private  Tosh  got  his  black 
eye :  that  is  a  souvenir  of  New  Year's  Eve.)  There 
are  entertainments  of  various  kinds  in  the  recre- 
ation-tent. This  whistUng  platoon,  with  towels 
round  their  necks,  are  on  their  way  to  the  nearest 
convent,  or  asylum,  or  ficole  des  Jeunes  Filles  — 
have  no  fear;  these  estabUshments  are  nnten- 


UNBENDING  THE  BOW  73 

anted!  —  for  a  bath.  There,  in  addition  to  the 
pleasures  of  ablution,  they  will  receive  a  partial 
change  of  raiment. 

Other  signs  of  regeneration  are  visible.  That 
mysterious-looking  vehicle,  rather  resembUng  one 
of  the  early  locomotives  exhibited  in  the  South 
Kensington  Museum,  standing  in  the  mud  outside 
a  farm-billet,  with  its  superheated  interior  stuffed 
with  "C"  Company's  blankets,  is  performing  an 
unmentionable  but  beneficent  work. 

Buttons  are  resuming  their  polish;  the  pattern 
of  our  kilts  is  emerging  from  its  superficial  crust; 
and  Church  Parade  is  once  more  becoming  quite  a 
show  affair. 

Away  to  the  east  the  guns  still  thunder,  and  at 
night  the  star-shells  float  tremblingly  up  over  the 
distant  horizon.  But  not  for  us.  Not  yet,  that  is. 
In  a  few  weeks'  time  we  shall  be  back  in  another 
part  of  the  line.  Till  then  —  Company  drill  and 
Cup-Ties!  Carpe  diem! 

n 

It  all  seemed  very  strange  and  unreal  to  Second- 
Lieutenant  Angus  M'Lachlan,  as  he  alighted  from 
the  train  at  railhead,  ani  supervised  the  efforts  of 
his  solitary  N.C.O.  to  arrange  the  members  of  his 
draft  in  a  straight  line.  There  were  some  thirty  of 
them  in  all.  Some  were  old  hands  —  men  from 
the  First  and  Second  BattaHons,  who  had  been 
home  wounded,  and  had  now  been  sent  out  to 
leaven  "K  (1)."  Others  were  Special  Reservists 
from  the  Third  Battahon.  These  had  been  at  the 
D6p6t  for  a  long  time,  and  some  of  them  stood 


74  ALL  IN  IT 

badly  in  need  of  a  little  active  service.  Others, 
again,  were  new  hands  altogether  —  the  product 
of  ''K  to  the  n^'"  Among  these  Angus  M'Lach- 
lan  numbered  himself,  and  he  made  no  attempt  to 
conceal  the  fact.  The  novelty  of  the  sights  aroimd 
him  was  almost  too  much  for  his  dignity  as  a  com- 
missioned officer. 

Angus  M'Lachlan  was  a  son  of  the  Manse,  and 
incidentally  a  child  of  Natm-e.  The  Manse  was  a 
Highland  Manse;  and  until  a  few  months  ago 
Angus  had  never,  save  for  a  rare  visit  to  distant 
Edinburgh,  penetrated  beyond  the  small  town 
which  lay  four  miles  from  his  native  glen,  and  of 
whose  local  Academy  he  had  been  *'dux."  When 
the  War  broke  out  he  had  been  upon  the  point  of 
proceeding  to  Edinburgh  University,  where  he 
had  already  laid  siege  to  a  bursary,  and  captured 
the  same;  but  all  these  plans,  together  with  the 
plans  of  countless  more  distinguished  persons,  had 
been  swept  to  the  winds  by  the  invasion  of  Bel- 
giiun.  On  that  date  Angus  summoned  up  his 
entire  stock  of  physical  and  moral  courage  and 
informed  his  reverend  parent  of  his  intention  to 
enlist  for  a  soldier.  Permission  was  granted  with 
quite  stunning  readiness.  Neil  M'Lachlan  be- 
lieved in  straight  hitting  both  in  theology  and 
war,  and  was  by  no  means  displeased  at  the  mar- 
tial aspirations  of  his  only  son.  If  he  quitted  him- 
self like  a  man  in  the  forefront  of  battle,  the  boy 
could  safely  look  forward  to  being  cock  of  his  own 
Kirk-Session  in  the  years  that  came  afterwards. 
One  reservation  the  old  man  made.  His  son,  as  a 
Highland  gentleman,  would  lead  men  to  battle, 


UNBENDING  THE  BOW  75 

and  not  merely  accompany  them.  So  the  impar 
tient  Angus  was  bidden  to  apply  for  a  Commission 
—  his  attention  dm'ing  the  period  of  waiting  being 
directed  by  his  parent  to  the  study  of  the  cam- 
paigns of  Joshua,  and  the  methods  employed  by 
that  singular  but  successful  strategist  in  dealing 
with  the  Philistine. 

Angus  had  a  long  while  to  wait,  for  all  the  youth 
of  England  —  and  Scotland  too  —  was  on  fire, 
and  others  nearer  the  fountain  of  honour  had  to  be 
served  first.  But  his  turn  came  at  last;  and 'we 
now  behold  him,  as  typical  a  product  of  "  K  to  the 
n"^  "  as  Bobby  Little  had  been  of  ''  K  (1), "  stand- 
ing at  last  upon  the  soil  of  France,  and  inquiring 
in  a  soft  Highland  voice  for  the  Headquarters  of 
our  own  particular  Battalion. 

He  had  half  expected,  half  hoped,  to  alight  from 
the  train  amidst  a  shower  of  shells,  as  he  knew  the 
Old  Regiment  had  done  many  months  before,  just 
after  the  War  broke  out.  But  all  he  saw  upon  his 
arrival  was  an  untidy  goods  yard,  httered  with 
mihtary  stores,  and  peopled  by  British  privates  in 
the  deshabille  affected  by  the  British  Army  when 
engaged  in  menial  tasks. 

Being  quite  ignorant  of  the  whereabouts  of  his 
regiment  —  when  last  heard  of  they  had  been  in 
trenches  near  Ypres  —  and  failing  to  recollect  the 
existence  of  that  autocratic  but  indispensable 
genius  loci,  the  R.T.O.,  Angus  took  uneasy  stock 
of  his  surroundings  and  wondered  what  to  do 
next. 

Suddenly  a  friendly  voice  at  his  elbow  re- 
marked — 


76  ALL  IN  IT 

"There's  a  queer  lot  o'  bodies  hereaboot,  sirr." 

Angus  turned,  to  find  that  he  was  being  ad- 
dressed by  a  short,  stout  private  of  the  draft,  in  a 
kilt  much  too  big  for  him. 

"Indeed,  that  is  so,"  he  repUed  pohtely. 
"What  is  your  name?" 

"Peter  Bogle,  sirr.  I  am  frae  oot  of  Kirkintil- 
loch." Evidently  gratified  by  the  success  of  his  con- 
versational opening,  the  little  man  continued  — 

"I  would  Uke  fine  for  tae  get  a  contrack  oot 
here  after  the  War.  This  country  is  in  a  terrible 
state  o'  disrepair."  Then  he  added  confiden- 
tially — 

"I'm  a  hoose-painter  tae  a  trade." 

"I  should  not  Hke  to  be  that  myself,"  repUed 
Angus,  whose  early  training  as  a  minister's  son 
was  always  causing  him  to  forget  the  social  gulf 
which  is  fixed  between  officers  and  the  rank-and- 
file.  "Climbing  ladders  makes  me  dizzy." 

"Och,  it's  naething!  A  body  gets  used  tae  it," 
Mr.  Bogle  assured  him. 

Angus  was  about  to  proceed  further  with  the 
discussion,  when  the  cold  and  disapproving  voice 
of  the  Draft-Sergeant  announced  in  his  ear  — 

"An  officer  wishes  to  speak  to  you,  sir." 

Second-Lieutenant  M'Lachlan,  suddenly  awake 
to  the  enormity  of  his  conduct,  turned  guiltily  to 
greet  the  officer,  while  the  Sergeant  abruptly 
hunted  the  genial  Private  Bogle  back  into  the 
ranks. 

Angus  found  himself  confronted  by  an  immacu- 
late young  gentleman  wearing  two  stars.  Angus, 
who  only  wore  one,  saluted  hurriedly. 


UNBENDING  THE  BOW  77 

''Morning,"  observed  the  stranger.  "You  in 
charge  of  this  draft?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Angus  respectfully. 

"Right-o!  You  are  to  march  them  to  'A* 
Company  billets.  I'll  show  you  the  way.  My 
name's  Cockerell.  Your  train  is  late.  What  time 
did  you  leave  the  Base?" 

"Indeed,"  rephed  Angus  meekly,  "I  am  not 
quite  sure.  We  had  barely  landed  when  they  told 
me  the  train  would  start  at  seventeen-forty. 
What  time  would  that  be  —  sir?" 

"About  a  quarter  to  six:  more  Ukely  about 
midnight!  Well,  get  your  bunch  on  to  the  road, 
and  —  Hallo,  what's  the  matter?  Let  go!" 

The  new  officer  was  gripping  him  excitedly  by 
the  arm,  and  as  the  new  officer  stood  six-foot-four 
and  was  brawny  in  proportion,  Master  Cockerell's 
appeal  was  uttered  in  a  tone  of  unusual  sincerity. 

"Look!"  cried  Angus  excitedly.  "The  dogs, 
the  dogs!" 

A  small  cart  was  passing  swiftly  by,  towed  by 
two  sturdy  hounds  of  unknown  degree.  They 
were  pulling  with  the  feverish  enthusiasm  which 
distinguishes  the  Dog  in  the  service  of  Man,  and 
were  being  urged  to  further  efforts  by  a  small  hat- 
less  girl  carrying  the  inevitable  large  umbrella. 

' '  All  right ! ' '  explained  Cockerell  ciulily .  ' '  Cus- 
tom of  the  country,  and  all  that." 

The  impulsive  Angus  apologised;  and  the  draft, 
having  been  safely  manoeuvred  on  to  the  road, 
formed  fours  and  set  out  upon  its  march. 

"Are  the  Battalion  in  the  trenches  at  present, 
sir?"  inquired  Angus, 


78  ALL  IN  IT 

"No.  Rest-billets  two  miles  from  here.  About 
time,  too!  You'll  get  lots  of  work  to  do,  though." 

"I  shall  welcome  that,"  said  Angus  simply. 
"In  the  d6p6t  at  home  we  were  terribly  idle. 
There  is  a  windmill!" 

"Yes;  one  sees  them  occasionally  out  here," 
rephed  Cockerell  drily. 

"Everything  is  so  strange!"  confessed  the 
open-hearted  Angus.  "Those  dogs  we  saw  just 
now  —  the  people  with  their  sabots  —  the  coun- 
try carts,  hke  wheelbarrows  with  three  wheels  — 
the  little  shrines  at  the  cross-roads  —  the  very 
children  talking  French  so  gUbly  — " 

"Wonderful  how  they  pick  it  up!"  agreed 
Cockerell.  But  the  sarcasm  was  lost  on  his  com- 
panion, whose  attention  was  now  riveted  upon  an 
approaching  body  of  infantry,  about  fifty  strong. 

"What  troops  are  those,  please?" 

Cockerell  knitted  his  brows  sardonically. 

"It's  rather  hard  to  tell  at  this  distance,"  he 
said;  "but  I  rather  think  they  are  the  Grenadier 
Guards." 

Two  minutes  later  the  procession  had  been  met 
and  passed.  It  consisted  entirely  of  elderly  gentle- 
men in  ill-fitting  khaki,  clumping  along  upon  their 
flat  feet  and  smoking  clay  pipes.  They  carried 
shovels  on  their  shoulders,  and  made  not  the 
slightest  response  when  called  upon  by  the  sol- 
dierly old  corporal  who  led  them  to  give  Mr. 
Cockerell  "eyes  left!"  On  the  contrary,  engaged 
as  they  were  in  heated  controversy  or  amiable 
conversation  with  one  another,  they  cut  him 
dead. 


UNBENDING  THE  BOW  79 

Angus  M'Lachlan  said  nothing  for  quite  five 
minutes.  Then  — 

*'I  suppose,"  he  said  almost  timidly,  "that 
those  were  members  of  a  Reserve  Regiment  of  the 
Guards?" 

Cockerell,  who  had  never  outgrown  certain 
characteristics  which  most  of  us  shed  upon  emerg- 
ing from  the  Lower  Fourth,  laughed  long  and 
loud. 

"That  crowd?  They  belong  to  one  of  the 
Labour  Battalions.  They  make  roads,  and  dig 
support  trenches,  and  sHng  mud  about  generally. 
Wonderful  old  sportsmen!  Pleased  as  Punch 
when  a  shell  falls  within  half  a  mile  of  them. 
Something  to  write  home  about.  What?  I  say,  I 
pulled  your  leg  that  time!  Here  we  are  at  Head- 
quarters. Come  and  report  to  the  CO.  Grena- 
dier Guards!  My  aunt!" 

Angus,  although  his  Celtic  enthusiasm  some- 
times led  him  into  traps,  was  no  fool.  He  soon 
settled  down  in  his  new  surroundings,  and  found 
favour  with  Colonel  Kemp,  which  was  no  Ught 
achievement. 

"You  won't  find  that  the  War,  in  its  present 
stage,  calls  for  any  display  of  genius,"  the  Colo- 
nel explained  to  Angus  at  their  first  interview. 
"I  don't  expect  my  officers  to  exhibit  any  quahty 
but  the  avoidance  of  sloppiness.  If  I  detail  you 
to  be  at  a  certain  spot,  at  a  certain  hour,  with  a 
certain  number  of  men  —  a  ration-party,  or  a 
working-party,  or  a  burial-party,  or  anything  you 
like,  —  all  I  ask  is  that  you  will  be  there,  at  the  ap- 


80  ALL  IN  IT 

pointed  hour,  with  the  whole  of  your  following. 
That  may  not  sound  a  very  difficult  feat,  but  ex- 
perience has  taught  me  that  if  a  man  can  achieve 
it,  and  can  be  relied  upon  to  achieve  it  under  pres- 
ent conditions,  say,  nine  times  out  of  ten  —  well, 
he  is  a  pearl  of  price;  and  there  is  not  a  CO.  in  the 
British  Army  who  would  n't  scramble  to  get  him  I 
That's  all,  M'Lachlan.   Good  morning!" 

By  punctihous  attention  to  this  sound  advice 
Angus  soon  began  to  build  up  a  reputation.  He 
treated  war-worn  veterans  hke  Bobby  Little  with 
immense  respect,  and  this,  too,  was  counted  to 
him  for  righteousness.  He  exercised  his  platoon 
with  appalling  vigom*.  Upon  Company  route- 
marches  he  had  to  be  embedded  in  some  safe 
place  in  the  middle  of  the  column;  in  fact,  his 
enormous  stride  and  pedestrian  enthusiasm  would 
have  reduced  his  followers  to  pulp.  At  Mess  he 
was  mute:  Hke  a  wise  man,  he  was  feeUng  for  his 
feet. 

And  being,  like  Moses,  slow  of  tongue,  he  pro- 
vided himself  with  an  Aaron.  Quite  inadvert- 
ently, be  it  said.  Bidden  to  obtain  a  servant  for 
his  personal  needs,  he  selected  the  only  man  in  the 
Battalion  whose  name  he  knew  —  Private  Bogle, 
the  ci-devant  painter  of  houses.  That  friendly 
creatiu'e  obeyed  the  call  with  alacrity.  If  his 
house-painting  was  no  better  than  his  valeting, 
then  his  prospects  of  a  ''contrack"  after  the  War 
were  poor  indeed;  but  as  a  Mess  waiter  he  was  a 
joy  for  ever.  Despite  the  blood-curdhng  whispers 
of  the  Mess  Corporal,  his. natural  urbanity  of  dis- 
position could  not  be  stemmed.  Of  the  comfort  of 


UNBENDING  THE  BOW  81 

others  he  was  soHcitous  to  the  point  of  oppres- 
siveness. A  Mess  waiter's  idea  of  efficiency  as  a 
rule  is  to  stand  woodenly  at  attention  in  an  ob- 
scure corner  of  the  room.  When  called  upon,  he 
starts  forward  with  a  jerk,  and  usually  trips  over 
something  —  probably  his  own  feet.  Not  so 
Private  Bogle. 

"WuU  you  try  another  cup  o'  tea,  Major?"  he 
would  suggest  at  breakfast  to  Major  Wagstaffe, 
leaning  affectionately  over  the  back  of  his  chair. 

"No,  thank  you,  Bogle,"  Major  Wagstaffe 
would  reply  gravely. 

"  Weel,  it's  cauld  onyway,"  Bogle  would  rejoin, 
anxious  to  endorse  his  superior's  decision. 

Or  —  in  the  same  spirit  — 

"Wull  I  luft  the  soup  now,  sir?" 

''No!'' 

"Varra  weel:  I'll  jist  let  it  bide  the  way  it  is." 

Lastly,  Angus  M'Lachlan  proved  himself  a 
useful  acquisition  —  especially  in  rest-billets  — 
as  an  athlete.  He  arrived  just  in  time  to  take  part 
—  no  mean  part,  either  —  in  a  Rugby  Football 
match  played  between  the  officers  of  two  Bri- 
gades. Thanks  very  largely  to  his  masterly  leading 
of  the  forwards,  our  Brigade  were  preserved  from 
defeat  at  the  hands  of  their  opponents,  who  on 
paper  had  appeared  to  be  irresistible. 

Rugby  Football  "oot  here"  is  a  rarity,  though 
Association,  being  essentially  the  game  of  the 
rank-and-file,  flourishes  in  every  green  field.  But 
an  Inverleith  or  Queen's  Club  crowd  would  have 
recognised  more  than  one  old  friend  among  the 


82  ALL  IN  IT 

thirty  who  took  the  field  that  day.  There  were 
those  participating  whose  last  game  had  been  one 
of  the  spring  "Internationals"  in  1914,  and  who 
had  been  engaged  in  a  prolonged  and  strenuous 
version  of  an  even  greater  International  ever 
since  August  of  that  fateful  year.  Every  public 
school  in  Scotland  was  represented  — sometimes 
three  or  four  times  over  —  and  there  were  nxuner- 
ous  doughty  contributions  from  estabUshments 
south  of  the  Tweed. 

The  lookers-on  were  in  different  case.  They 
were  to  a  man  devoted  —  nay,  frenzied  —  ad- 
herents of  the  Association  code.  In  less  spacious 
days  they  had  surged  in  their  thousands  every 
Saturday  afternoon  to  Ibrox,  or  Tynecastle,  or 
Parkhead,  there  to  yell  themselves  into  convul- 
sions —  now  exhorting  a  friend  to  hit  some  one  a 
kick  on  the  nose,  now  sternly  reconmiending  the 
foe  to  play  the  game,  now  hoarsely  consigning  the 
referee  to  perdition.  To  these,  Rugby  Football  — 
the  greatest  of  all  manly  games  —  was  a  mere 
name.  Their  attitude  when  the  officers  appeared 
upon  the  field  was  one  of  indulgent  superiority  — 
the  sort  of  superiority  that  a  brawny  pitman  ex- 
hibits when  his  Platoon  Commander  steps  down 
into  a  trench  to  lend  a  hand  with  the  digging. 

But  in  five  minutes  their  mouths  were  agape 
with  scandahsed  astonishment;  in  ten,  the  heav- 
ens were  rent  with  their  protesting  cries.  Accus- 
tomed to  see  football  played  with  the  feet,  and  to 
demand  with  one  voice  the  instant  execution  of 
any  player  (on  the  other  side)  who  laid  so  much  as 
a  finger  upon  the  ball  or  the  man  who  was  playing 


UNBENDING  THE  BOW  83 

it,  the  exhibition  of  savage  and  promiscuous  bru- 
tality to  which  their  superiors  now  treated  them 
shocked  the  assembled  spectators  to  the  roots  of 
their  sensitive  souls.  Howls  of  virtuous  indigna- 
tion bursts  forth  upon  all  sides. 

When  the  three-quarter-backs  brought  off  a 
brilliant  passing  run,  there  were  stern  cries  of 
"Haands,  there,  referee!"  When  Bobby  Little 
stopped  an  ugly  rush  by  hurling  himself  on  the 
ball,  the  supporters  of  the  other  Brigade  greeted 
his  heroic  devotion  with  yells  of  execration.  When 
Angus  M'Lachlan  saved  a  certain  try  by  tackling 
a  speedy  wing  three-quarter  low  and  bringing  him 
down  with  a  crash,  a  hundred  voices  demanded 
his  expulsion  from  the  field.  And,  when  Mr.  Wad- 
dell,  playing  a  stuffy  but  useful  game  at  half, 
gained  fifty  yards  for  his  side  by  a  series  of 
judicious  little  kicks  into  touch,  the  spectators 
groaned  aloud,  and  remarked  caustically  — 

"This  maun  be  a  Cup-Tie,  boys!  They  are 
playin'  for  a  draw,  for  tae  get  a  second  gate!" 

Altogether  a  thoroughly  enjoyable  afternoon, 
both  for  players  and  spectators.  And  so  home  to 
tea,  domesticity,  and  social  intercourse. 

In  this  connection  it  may  be  noted  that  our 
relations  with  the  inhabitants  are  of  the  friendli- 
est. On  the  stroke  of  six  —  oh  yes,  we  have  our 
licensing  restrictions  out  here  too !  —  half  a  dozen 
kilted  warriors  stroll  into  the  farm-kitchen,  and 
mumble  affably  to  Madame  — 

' '  Bone  sworr !   Beer?  " 

France  boasts  one  enormous  advantage  over 
Scotland.  At  home,  you  have  at  least  to  walk  to 


84  ALL  IN  IT 

the  comer  of  the  street  to  obtain  a  drink:  "oot 
here"  you  can  purchase  beer  in  practically  every 
house  in  a  village.  The  French  Ucensing  laws  are 
a  thing  of  mystery,  but  the  system  appears 
roughly  to  be  this.  Either  you  possess  a  license, 
or  you  do  not.  If  you  do,  you  may  sell  beer,  and 
nothing  else.  If  you  do  not,  you  may  —  or  at  any 
rate  do  —  sell  anything  you  like,  including  beer. 

However,  we  have  left  om*  friends  thirsty. 

Their  wants  are  suppUed  with  cheerful  alacrity, 
and,  having  been  accommodated  with  seats  round 
the  stove,  they  converse  with  the  family.  Heaven 
only  knows  what  they  talk  about,  but  talk  they 
do  —  in  the  throaty  unintelUgible  Doric  of  the 
Clydeside,  with  an  occasional  Gallicism,  Hke, 
"Allyman  no  bon!"  or  ''Compree?"  thrown  in  as 
a  sop  to  foreign  idiosyncracies.  Madame  and 
family  respond,  chattering  French  (or  Flemish)  at 
enormous  speed.  The  amazing  part  of  it  all  is  that 
neither  side  appears  to  experience  the  slightest 
difficulty  in  understanding  the  other.  One  day 
Mr.  Waddell,  in  the  course  of  a  friendly  chat  with 
his  hostess  of  the  moment  —  she  was  unable  to 
speak  a  word  of  English  —  received  her  warm 
congratulations  upon  his  contemplated  union 
with  a  certain  fair  one  of  St.  Andrew  (to  whom 
reference  has  previously  been  made  in  these 
pages).  Mr.  Waddell,  a  very  fair  linguist,  replied 
in  suitable  but  embarrassed  terms,  and  asked  for 
the  source  of  the  good  lady's  information. 

"Mais  votre  ordonnance,  m'sieur!"  was  the 
reply. 

Tackled  upon  the  subject,  the  "ordonnance"  in 


UNBENDING  THE  BOW  85 

question,  Waddell's  servant  —  a  shock-headed 
youth  from  Dundee  —  admitted  having  commun- 
icated the  information;  and  added  — 

"She's  a  decent  body,  sirr,  the  lady  o'  the 
hoose.  She  lost  her  husband,  she  was  tellin'  me, 
three  years  ago.  She  has  twa  sons  in  the  Air  my. 
Her  auld  Auntie  is  up  at  the  top  o'  the  hoose  — 
lyin'  badly,  and  no  expectin'  tae  rise." 

And  yet  some  people  study  Esperanto! 

We  also  make  ourselves  useful.  "K  (1)"  con- 
tains members  of  every  craft.  If  the  pig-sty  door 
is  broken,  a  carpenter  is  forthcoming  to  mend  it. 
Somebody's  elbow  goes  through  a  pane  of  glass  in 
the  farm-kitchen :  straightway  a  glazier  material- 
ises from  the  nearest  platoon,  and  puts  in  another. 
The  ancestral  eight-day  clock  of  the  household 
develops  internal  complications;  and  is  forthwith 
dismembered  and  reassembled,  "with  punctual- 
ity, civility,  and  despatch,"  by  a  gentleman  who 
until  a  few  short  months  ago  had  done  nothing 
else  for  fifteen  years. 

And  it  was  in  this  connection  that  Corporal 
Mucklewame  stumbled  on  to  a  rare  and  congenial 
job,  and  incidentally  made  the  one  joke  of  his  life. 

One  afternoon  a  cow,  the  property  of  Madame 
la  fermUre,  developed  symptoms  of  some  serious 
disorder.  A  period  of  dolorous  bellowing  was  fol- 
lowed by  an  outburst  of  homicidal  mania,  during 
which  "A"  Company  prudently  barricaded  itself 
into  the  barn,  the  sufferer  having  taken  entire 
possession  of  the  farmyard.  Next,  and  finally  — 
so  rapidly  did  the  malady  run  its  com-se  —  a  state 
of  coma  intervened;  and  finally  the  cow,  collaps- 


80  ALL  IN  IT 

ing  upon  the  doorstep  of  the  Officers'  Mess, 
breathed  her  last  before  any  one  could  be  found  to 
point  out  to  her  the  liberty  she  was  taking. 

It  was  decided  to  hold  a  post-mortem  —  firstly, 
to  ascertain  the  cause  of  death;  secondly,  because 
it  is  easier  to  remove  a  dead  cow  after  dissection 
than  before.  Madame  therefore  announced  her 
intention  of  sending  for  the  butcher,  and  was  upon 
the  point  of  doing  so  when  Corporal  Muckle- 
wame,  in  whose  heart,  at  the  spectacle  of  the 
stark  and  lifeless  corpse,  ancient  and  romantic 
memories  were  stirring  —  it  may  be  remembered 
that  before  answering  to  the  call  of  "K(l)" 
Mucklewame  had  followed  the  calling  of  butcher's 
assistant  at  Wishaw  —  volunteered  for  the  job. 
His  services  were  cordially  accepted  by  thrifty 
Madame;  and  the  Corporal,  surrounded  by  a 
silent  and  admiring  crowd,  set  to  work. 

The  officers,  leaving  the  Junior  Subaltern  in 
charge,  went  with  one  accord  for  a  long  country 
walk. 

Half  an  hour  later  Mucklewame  arrived  at  the 
seat  of  the  deceased  animal's  trouble  —  the  seat 
of  most  of  the  troubles  of  mankind  —  its  stomach. 
After  a  brief  investigation,  he  produced  therefrom 
a  small  bag  of  nails,  recently  missed  from  the 
vicinity  of  a  cook-house  in  course  of  construction 
in  the  comer  of  the  yard. 

Abandoning  the  role  of  surgical  expert  for  that 
of  coroner,  Mucklewame  held  the  trophy  aloft, 
and  deUvered  his  verdict  — 

"There,  boys!  That's  what  comes  of  eating 
your  iron  ration  without  authority!" 


UNBENDING  THE  BOW  87 

III 

Here  is  an  average  billet,  and  its  personnel. 

The  central  feature  of  our  residence  is  the 
refuse-pit,  which  fills  practically  the  whole  of  the 
rectangular  farmyard,  and  resembles  (in  size  and 
shape  only)  an  open-air  swimming  bath.  Its 
abundant  contents  are  apparently  the  sole  asset 
of  the  household;  for  if  you  proceed,  in  the  inter- 
ests of  health,  to  spread  a  decent  mantle  of  honest 
earth  thereover,  you  do  so  to  the  accompaniment 
of  a  harmonised  chorus  of  lamentation,  very  cred- 
itably rendered  by  the  entire  family,  who  are 
grouped  en  masse  about  the  spot  where  the  high 
diving-board  ought  to  be. 

Round  this  perverted  place  of  ablution  runs  a 
stone  ledge,  some  four  feet  wide,  and  round  that 
again  run  the  farm  buildings  —  the  house  at  the 
top  end,  a  great  barn  down  one  side,  and  the  cow- 
house, together  with  certain  darksome  piggeries 
and  fowl-houses,  down  the  other.  These  latter 
residences  are  occupied  only  at  night,  their  ten- 
ants preferring  to  spend  the  golden  hoiu-s  of  day 
in  profitable  occupation  upon  the  happy  hunting 
ground  in  the  middle. 

Within  the  precincts  of  this  already  over- 
crowded establishment  are  lodged  some  two  hun- 
dred British  soldiers  and  their  officers.  The  men 
sleep  in  the  barn,  their  meals  being  prepared  for 
them  upon  the  Company  cooker,  which  stands 
in  the  muddy  road  outside,  and  resembles  the 
humble  vehicle  employed  by  Urban  District 
Councils  for  the  preparation  of  tar  for  road- 


88  ALL  IN  IT 

mending  purposes.  The  officers  occupy  any  room 
which  may  be  available  within  the  farmhouse  it- 
self. The  Company  Commander  has  the  best  bed- 
room —  a  low-roofed,  stone-floored  apartment, 
with  a  very  small  window  and  a  very  large  bed. 
The  subalterns  sleep  where  they  can  —  usually  in 
the  grenier,  a  loft  under  the  tiles,  devoted  to  the 
storage  of  onions  and  the  drying,  during  the  win- 
ter months,  of  the.  family  washing,  which  is  sus- 
pended from  innumerable  strings  stretched  from 
wall  to  wall. 

For  a  Mess,  there  is  usually  a  spare  apartment 
of  some  kind.  If  not,  you  put  your  pride  in  your 
pocket  and  take  your  meals  at  the  kitchen  table, 
at  such  hours  as  the  family  are  not  sitting  humped 
round  the  same  with  their  hats  on,  partaking  of 
soup  or  coffee.  (This  appears  to  be  their  sole  sus- 
tenance.) A  farm-kitchen  in  northern  France  is  a 
scrupulously  clean  place  —  the  whole  family  gets 
up  at  haK-past  four  in  the  morning  and  sees  to  the 
matter  —  and  despite  the  frugahty  of  her  own 
home  menu,  the  fermiere  can  produce  you  a  perfect 
omelette  at  any  hour  of  the  day  or  night. 

This  brings  us  to  the  kitchen-stove,  which  is  a 
marvel.  No  massive  and  extravagant  EngUsh 
ranges  here!  There  is  only  one  kind:  we  call  it  the 
Coffin  and  Flower-pot.  The  coffin  —  small,  black, 
and  highly  poHshed  —  projects  from  the  wall 
about  four  feet,  the  further  end  being  supported 
by  what  looks  like  an  ornamental  black  flower-pot 
standing  on  a  pedestal.  The  coffin  is  the  oven, 
and  the  flower-pot  is  the  stove.  Given  a  handful 
of  small  coal  or  charcoal,  Madame  appears  cap- 


UNBENDING  THE  BOW  89 

able  of  keeping  it  at  work  all  day,  and  of  boiling, 
baking,  or  roasting  you  innumerable  dishes. 

Then  there  is  the  family.  Who  or  what  they  all 
are,  and  where  they  all  sleep,  is  a  profound  mys- 
tery. The  family  tree  is  usually  headed  by  a  de- 
crepit and  ruminant  old  gentleman  in  a  species  of 
yachting-cap.  He  sits  behind  the  stove  —  not 
exactly  with  one  foot  in  the  grave,  but  with  both 
knees  well  up  against  the  coffin  —  and  occasion- 
ally offers  a  mumbled  observation  of  which  no  one 
takes  the  slightest  notice.  Sometimes,  too,  there 
is  an  old,  a  very  old,  lady.  Probably  she  is  some 
one's  grandmother,  or  great-grandmother,  but 
she  does  not  appear  to  be  related  to  the  old  gentle- 
man. At  least,  they  never  recognise  one  another's 
existence  in  any  way. 

There  are  also  vague  people  who  possess  the 
power  of  becoming  invisible  at  will.  They  fade  in 
and  out  of  the  house  like  wraiths:  their  one  object 
in  life  appears  to  be  to  efface  themselves  as  much 
as  possible.  Madame  refers  to  them  as  * '  refugies ' ' ; 
this  the  sophisticated  Mr.  Cockerell  translates, 
"German  spies." 

Next  in  order  come  one  or  two  farmhands  — 
usually  addressed  as  '"Nri!"  and  '''Seph!"  They 
are  not  as  a  rule  either  attractive  in  appearance  or 
desirable  in  character.  Everyman  in  this  coimtry, 
who  is  a  man,  is  away,  as  a  matter  of  course,  doing 
a  man's  only  possible  duty  under  the  circimi- 
stances.  This  leaves  'Nri  and  'Seph,  who  through 
physical  or  mental  shortcomings  are  denied  the 
proud  privilege,  and  shamble  about  in  the  muck 
and  mud  of  the  farm,  leering  or  grmnbUng,  while 


90  ALL  IN  IT 

Madame  exhorts  them  to  further  activity  from 
the  kitchen  door.  They  take  their  meals  with  the 
family:  where  they  sleep  no  one  knows.  External 
evidence  suggests  the  cow-house. 

Then,  the  family.  First,  Angele.  She  may  be 
twenty-five,  but  is  more  probably  fifteen.  She 
acts  as  Adjutant  to  Madame,  and  rivals  her 
mother  as  dehverer  of  sustained  and  rapid  recita- 
tive. She  milks  the  cows,  feeds  the  pigs,  and  dra- 
goons her  young  brothers  and  sisters.  But  though 
she  works  from  morning  till  night,  she  has  always 
time  for  a  smiling  salutation  to  all  ranks.  She 
also  speaks  English  quite  creditably  —  a  fact  of 
which  Madame  is  justly  proud.  "College!"  ex- 
plains the  mother,  full  of  appreciation  for  an  edu- 
cation which  she  herself  has  never  known,  and 
taps  her  learned  daughter  affectionately  upon  the 
head. 

Next  in  order  comes  ]Smile.  He  must  be  about 
fourteen,  but  War  has  forced  manhood  on  him. 
All  day  long  he  is  at  work,  bullying  very  large 
horses,  digging,  hoeing,  even  ploughing.  He  is 
very  much  a  boy,  for  all  that.  He  whistles  excru- 
ciatingly—  usually  Enghsh  music-hall  melodies 
—  grins  sheepishly  at  the  officers,  and  is  prepared 
at  any  moment  to  abandon  the  most  important 
tasks,  in  order  to  watch  a  man  cleaning  a  rifle  or 
oihng  a  machine-gun.  We  seem  to  have  encoun- 
tered Emile  in  other  countries  than  this. 

After  fimile,  Gabrielle.  Her  age  is  probably 
seven.  If  you  were  to  give  her  a  wash  and  brush- 
up,  dress  her  in  a  gauzy  frock,  and  exchange  her 
thick  woollen  stockings  and  wooden  sabots  for 


UNBENDING  THE  BOW  91 

silk  and  dancing  slippers,  she  would  make  a  very- 
smart  little  fairy.  Even  in  her  native  state  she  is 
a  most  attractive  young  person,  of  an  engaging 
coyness.  If  you  say:  ''Bonjour,  Gabrielle!"  she 
whispers:  "B'jour  M'sieur  le  Capitaine"  —  or, 
''M'sieur  le  Caporal";  for  she  knows  all  badges  of 
rank  —  and  hangs  her  head  demurely.  But  pres- 
ently, if  you  stand  quite  still  and  look  the  other 
way,  Gabrielle  will  sidle  up  to  you  and  squeeze 
your  hand.  This  is  gratifying,  but  a  httle  subver- 
sive of  strict  disciphne  if  you  happen  to  be  inspect- 
ing your  platoon  at  the  moment. 

Gabrielle  is  a  firm  favourite  with  the  rank  and 
file.  Her  particular  crony  is  one  Private  Mackay, 
an  amorphous  youth  with  flaming  red  hair.  He 
and  Gabrielle  engage  in  lengthy  conversations, 
which  appear  to  be  perfectly  intelligible  to  both, 
though  Mackay  speaks  with  the  solemn  unction 
of  the  Aberdonian,  and  Gabrielle  prattles  at  ex- 
press speed  in  a  patois  of  her  own.  Last  week 
some  unknown  humorist,  evidently  considering 
that  Gabrielle  was  not  making  sufficient  progress 
in  her  knowledge  of  English,  took  upon  himself  to 
give  her  a  private  lesson.  Next  morning  Mackay, 
on  sentry  duty  at  the  farm  gate,  espied  his  Uttle 
friend  peeping  round  a  corner. 

''Hey,  Garibell!"  he  observed  cheerfully.  (No 
Scottish  private  ever  yet  mastered  a  French  name 
quite  completely.) 

Gabrielle,  anxious  to  exhibit  her  new  accom- 
plishment, drew  nearer,  smiled  seraphically,  and 
replied  — 

'"EUo,  Gingeair!" 


92  ALL  IN  IT 

Last  of  the  bunch  comes  Petit  Jean,  a  chubby 
and  close-cropped  youth  of  about  six.  Petit  Jean 
is  not  his  real  name,  as  he  himself  indignantly  ex- 
plained when  so  addressed  by  Major  Wagstaffe. 

"Moi,  z'ne  suis  pas  Petit  Jean;  z'suis  Maurr- 
rice!" 

Major  Wagstaffe  apologised  most  himibly,  but 
the  name  stuck. 

Petit  Jean  is  an  enthusiast  upon  matters  mih- 
tary.  He  possesses  a  little  wooden  rifle,  the  gift  of 
a  friendly  "Ecossais,"  tipped  with  a  flashing  bay- 
onet cut  from  a  biscuit-tin;  and  spends  most  of  his 
time  out  upon  the  road,  waiting  for  some  one  to 
salute.  At  one  time  he  used  to  stand  by  the  sen- 
try, with  an  ancient  glengarry  crammed  over  his 
bullet  head,  and  conform  meticulously  to  his  com- 
rade's sUghtest  movement.  This  procedure  was 
soon  banned,  as  being  calculated  to  bring  con- 
tempt and  ridicule  upon  the  King's  uniform,  and 
Petit  Jean  was  assigned  a  beat  of  his  own.  Behold 
him  upon  sentry-go. 

A  figure  upon  horseback  swings  round  the  bend 
in  the  road. 

"Here's  an  officer,  Johnny!"  cries  a  friendly 
voice  from  the  farm  gate. 

Petit  Jean,  as  upright  as  a  post,  brings  his  rifle 
from  stand-at-ease  to  the  order,  and  from  the  or- 
der to  the  slope,  with  the  epileptic  jerkiness  of  a 
marionette,  and  scrutinises  the  approaching  officer 
for  stars  and  crowns.  If  he  can  discern  nothing  but 
a  star  or  two,  he  slaps  the  small  of  his  butt  with 
ferocious  solemnity;  but  if  a  crown,  or  a  red  hat- 
band, reveals  itself,  he  blows  out  his  small  chest 


UNBENDING  THE  BOW  93 

to  its  fullest  extent  and  presents  arms.  If  the  sa- 
lute is  acknowledged  —  as  it  nearly  always  is  — 
Petit  Jean  is  crimson  with  gratification.  Once, 
when  a  friendly  subaltern  called  his  platoon  to 
attention,  and  gave  the  order,  "Eyes  right ! "  upon 
passing  the  motionless  little  figure  at  the  side  of 
the  road,  Petit  Jean  was  so  uplifted  that  he  com- 
mitted the  military  crime  of  deserting  his  post 
while  on  duty — in  order  to  nm  home  and  tell  his 
mother  about  it. 

Last  of  all  we  arrive  at  the  keystone  of  the 
whole  fabric  —  Madame  herself.  She  is  one  of  the 
most  wonderful  women  in  the  world.  Consider. 
Her  two  older  sons  are  away  —  fighting,  she 
knows  not  where,  amid  dangers  and  privations 
which  can  only  be  imagined.  During  their  ab- 
sence she  has  to  manage  a  considerable  farm, 
with  the  help  of  her  children  and  one  or  two  hired 
labourers  of  more  than  doubtful  use  or  reliability. 
In  addition  to  her  ordinary  duties  as  a  parent  and 
fermiere,  she  finds  herself  called  upon,  for  months 
on  end,  to  maintain  her  premises  as  a  combina- 
tion of  barracks  and  almshouse.  Yet  she  is  seldom 
cross  —  except  possibly  when  the  soldats  steal  her 
apples  and  pelt  the  pigs  with  the  cores  —  and  no 
accumulations  of  labour  can  sap  her  energy.  She 
is  up  by  half -past  four  every  morning;  yet  she 
never  appears  anxious  to  go  to  bed  at  night.  The 
last  sound  which  sleepy  subalterns  hear  is  Ma- 
dame's  voice,  upHfted  in  steady  discourse  to  the 
circle  round  the  stove,  sustained  by  an  occasional 
guttural  chord  from  'Nri  and  'Seph.  She  hjas  beeu 


94  ALL  IN  IT 

doing  this,  day  in,  day  out,  since  the  combatants 
settled  down  to  trench-warfare.  Every  few  weeks 
brings  a  fresh  crop  of  tenants,  with  fresh  pecuHari- 
ties  and  unknown  prochvities;  and  she  assimilates 
them  all. 

The  only  approach  to  a  breakdown  comes 
when,  after  paying  her  httle  bill  —  you  may  be 
sure  that  not  an  omelette  nor  a  broken  window 
will  be  missing  from  the  account  —  and  wishing 
her  "Bonne  chance!"  ere  you  depart,  you  venture 
on  a  reference,  in  a  few  awkward,  stumbling  sen- 
tences, to  the  absent  sons.  Then  she  weeps,  copi- 
ously, and  it  seems  to  do  her  a  world  of  good.  All 
hail  to  you,  Madame  —  the  finest  exponent,  in 
all  this  War,  of  the  art  of  Carrying  On!  We  know 
now  why  France  is  such  a  great  country. 


VI 

TE  MEBRIE  BUZZERS 
I 

Practically  all  the  business  of  an  Army  in  the 
field  is  transacted  by  telephone.  If  the  telephone 
breaks  down,  whether  by  the  Act  of  God  or  of  the 
King's  Enemies,  that  business  is  at  a  standstill 
until  the  telephone  is  put  right  again. 

The  importance  of  the  disaster  varies  with  the 
nature  of  the  business.  For  instance,  if  the  wire 
leading  to  the  Round  Game  Department  is  blown 
down  by  a  March  gale,  and  your  weekly  return  of 
Men  Recommended  for  False  Teeth  is  delayed  in 
transit,  nobody  minds  very  much  —  except  pos- 
sibly the  Deputy  Assistant  Director  of  Auxiliary 
Dental  Appliances.  But  if  you  are  engaged  in 
battle,  and  the  wires  which  link  up  the  driving 
force  in  front  with  the  directing  force  behind  are 
devastated  by  a  storm  of  shrapnel,  the  matter 
assumes  a  more  —  nay,  a  most  —  serious  aspect. 
Hence  the  superlative  importance  in  modem  war- 
fare of  the  Signal  Sections  of  the  Royal  Engineers 
—  tersely  described  by  the  rank-and-file  as  the 
"Buzzers,"  or  the  "Iddy-Umpties." 

During  peace-training,  the  Buzzer  on  the  whole 
has  a  very  pleasant  time  of  it.  Once  he  has  mas- 
tered the  mysteries  of  the  Semaphore  and  Morse 
codes,  the  most  laborious  part  of  his  education  is 
over.  Henceforth  he  spends  his  days  upon  some 


96  ALL  IN  IT 

sheltered  hillside,  in  company  with  one  or  two 
congenial  spirits,  flapping  cryptic  messages  out  of 
a  blue-and-white  flag  at  a  similar  party  across  the 
valley. 

A  year  ago,  for  instance,  you  might  have  en- 
countered an  old  friend,  Private  M'Micking,  — 
one  of  the  original  ''Buzzers"  of  "A"  Company, 
and  ultimately  BattaUon  Signal  Sergeant  —  un- 
der the  lee  of  a  pine  wood  near  Hindhead,  accom- 
panied by  Lance-Corporal  Greig  and  Private 
Wamphray,  regarding  with  languid  interest  the 
frenzied  efforts  of  three  of  their  colleagues  to  con- 
vey a  message  from  a  sunny  hillside  three  quarters 
of  a  mile  away. 

"Here  a  message  comin'  through,  boys,"  an- 
nounces the  Lance-Corporal.  ''They're  in  a  sair 
hurry:  I  doot  the  oflficer  will  be  there.  Jeams,  tak' 
it  doon  while  Sandy  reads  it." 

Mr.  James  M'Micking  seats  himself  upon  a 
convenient  log.  In  order  not  to  confuse  his 
faculties  by  endeavouring  to  read  and  write 
simultaneously,  he  turns  his  back  upon  the 
fluttering  flag,  and  bends  low  over  his  field 
message-pad.  Private  Wamphray  stands  facing 
him,  and  solemnly  spells  out  the  message  over 
his  head. 

"Tae  g-o-c  —  I  dinna  ken  what  that  means  — 
r-e-d,  reid  —  a-r-m-y,  airmy  —  h-a-z  — " 

"All  richt;  that'll  be  Haslemere,"  says  Private 
M'Micking,  scribbling  down  the  word.  "Go  on, 
Sandy!" 

Private  Wamphray,  pausing  to  expectorate, 
continues  — 


YE  MERRIE  BUZZERS  97 

"  R-e-c-o-n-n-o-i-t-r  —  Cricky,  what  a  worrd! 
Let's  hae  it  repeatit." 

Wamphray  flaps  his  flag  vigorously,  —  he 
knows  this  particular  signal  only  too  well,  —  and 
the  word  comes  through  again.  The  distant  sig- 
naller, slowing  down  a  little,  continues,  — 

"'Reconnoitring  patrol  reports  hostile  cavalry 
scou — '" 

"That'll  be  'scouts,'"  says  the  ever-ready 
M'Micking.   "Carry  on!" 

Wamphray  continues  obediently,  — 

"'Country';  stop;  'Have  thrown  out  flank 
guns';  s^op;  'Shall  I  advance  or  re  — '" 

" —  tire,"  gabbles  M'Micking,  writing  it  down. 

" —  'where  I  am';  stop;  'From  0  C  Advance 
Guard';  stop;  message  ends." 

"And  aboot  time,  too!"  observes  the  scribe 
severely.   "Haw,  Johnny!" 

The  Lance-Corporal,  who  has  been  indulging  in 
a  pleasant  reverie  upon  a  bank  of  bracken,  wakes 
up  and  reads  the  proffered  message. 

"To  G  0  C,  Red  Army,  Hazlemere.  Recon- 
noitring patrol  reports  hostile  cavalry  scouts 
country.  Have  thrown  out  flank  guns.  Shall  I 
advance  or  retire  where  I  am?  From  O  C  Advance 
Guard." 

"This  message  doesna  sound  altogether  sense," 
he  observes  mildly.  "That  'shall'  should  be 
'wuU,'  onyway.  Would  it  no'  be  better  to  get  it 
repeatit?  The  ofiicer — " 

"I've  given  the  'message-read'  signal  now," 
objects  the  indolent  Wamphray. 


98  ALL  IN  IT 

''How  would  it  be,"  suggests  the  Lance-Cor- 
poral,  whose  besetting  sin  is  a  penchant  for  emen- 
dation, "if  we  were  tae  transfair  yon  stop,  and 
say:  'Reconnoitring  patrol  reports  hostile  cavalry 
scouts.   Country  has  thrown  oot  flank  guns'?" 

"What  does  that  mean?"  inquires  M'Micking 
scornfully. 

"I  dinjia  ken;  but  these  messages  about  Gen- 
erals and  sic'-Uke  bodies  — " 

At  this  moment,  as  ill-luck  will  have  it,  the  Sig- 
nal Sergeant  appears  breasting  the  hillside.  He 
arrives  puffing  —  he  has  seen  twenty  years'  serv- 
ice —  and  scrutinises  the  message. 

"You  boys,"  he  says  reproachfully,  "are  an 
aggravate  altogether.  Here  you  are,  jumping  at 
your  conclusions  again!  After  all  I  have  been  tell- 
ing you!  See!  That  worrd  in  the  address  should 
no'  be  Haslemere  at  all.  It's  just  a  catch!  It's 
Hazebroucke  —  a  Gairman  city  that  we'll  be 
capturing  this  time  next  year.  'Scouts'  is  no 
'scouts,'  but  'scouring'  —  meaning  'sooping  up.' 
'Guns'  should  be  'guarrd,'  and  'retire'  should  be 
'remain.'  Mind  me,  now;  next  time,  you'll  be  up 
before  the  Captain  for  neglect  of  duty.  Wam- 
phray,  give  the  'C.I.,'  and  let's  get  hame  to  oor 
dinners!" 

II 

But  "oot  here"  there  is  no  flag-wagging.  The 
Buzzer's  first  proceeding  upon  entering  the  field 
of  active  hostiUties  is  to  get  undergroimd,  and 
stay  there. 

He  is  a  seasoned  vessel,  the  Buzzer  of  to-day, 


YE  MERRIE  BUZZERS  99 

and  a  person  of  marked  individuality.  He  is 
above  all  things  a  man  of  the  world.  Sitting  day 
and  night  in  a  dug-out,  or  a  cellar,  with  a  tele- 
phone receiver  clamped  to  his  ear,  he  sees  little; 
but  he  hears  much,  and  overhears  more.  He  also 
speaks  a  language  of  his  own.  His  one  task  in  life 
is  to  prevent  the  letter  B  from  sounding  like  C,  or 
D,  or  P,  or  T,  or  V,  over  the  telephone;  so  he  has 
perverted  the  English  language  to  his  own  uses. 
He  calls  B  "Beer,"  and  D  "Don,"  and  so  on.  He 
salutes  the  rosy  dawn  as  "  Akk  Emma,"  and  even- 
tide as  "Pip  Emma."  He  refers  to  the  letter  S  as 
"  Esses,"  in  order  to  distinguish  it  from  F.  He  has 
no  respect  for  the  most  majestic  military  titles. 
To  him  the  Deputy  Assistant  Director  of  the 
Mobile  Veterinary  Section  is  merely  a  lifeless  for- 
mula, entitled  Don  Akk  Don  Emma  Vic  Esses. 

He  is  also  a  man  of  detached  mind.  The  tactical 
situation  does  not  interest  him.  His  business  is  to 
disseminate  news,  not  to  write  leading  articles 
about  it.  (0  si  sic  omnes !)  You  may  be  engaged 
in  a  life-and-death  struggle  for  the  possession  of 
your  own  parapet  with  a  Boche  bombing-party; 
but  this  does  not  render  you  immune  from  a  pink 
slip  from  the  Signal  Section,  asking  you  to  state 
your  reasons  in  writing  for  having  mislaid  four- 
teen pairs  of  "boots,  gum,  thigh,"  lately  the 
property  of  Number  Seven  Platoon.  A  famous 
British  soldier  tells  a  story  somewhere  in  his  remi- 
niscences of  an  occasion  upon  which,  in  some  long- 
forgotten  bush  campaign,  he  had  to  defend  a 
zareba  against  a  heavy  attack.  For  a  time  the 
situation  was  critical.    Help  was  badly  needed. 


100  ALL  IN  IT 

but  the  telegraph  wire  had  been  cut.  Ultimately 
the  attack  withered  away,  and  the  situation  was 
saved.  Almost  simultaneously  the  victorious  com- 
mander was  informed  that  telegraphic  communi- 
cation with  the  Base  had  been  restored.  A  mes- 
sage was  already  coming  through. 

"News  of  reinforcements,  I  hope ! "  he  remarked 
to  his  subordinate. 

But  his  surmise  was  incorrect.  The  message 
said,  quite  simply:  — 

"Your  monthly  return  of  men  wishing  to 
change  their  religion  is  twenty-four  hours  over- 
due. Please  expedite." 

There  was  a  time  when  one  laughed  at  that 
anecdote  as  a  playful  invention.  But  we  know 
now  that  it  is  true,  and  we  feel  a  sort  of  pride  in 
the  truly  British  imperturbabihty  of  our  official 
machinery. 

Thirdly,  the  Buzzer  is  a  humourist,  of  the  sar- 
donic variety.  The  constant  clash  of  wits  over  the 
wires,  and  the  necessity  of  framing  words  quickly, 
sharpens  his  faculties  and  acidulates  his  tongue. 
Incidentally,  he  is  an  awkward  person  to  quarrel 
with.  One  black  night,  Bobby  Little,  making  his 
second  round  of  the  trenches  about  an  hoiu*  before 
"stand-to,"  felt  constrained  to  send  a  telephone 
message  to  BattaUon  Headquarters.  Taking  a 
good  breath,  —  you  always  do  this  before  en- 
tering a  trench  dug-out, —he  plunged  into  the 
noisome  cavern  where  his  Company  Signallers 
kept  everlasting  vigil.    The  place  was  in  total 


YE  MERRIE  BUZZERS  101 

darkness,  except  for  the  illumination  supplied  by 
a  strip  of  rifle-rag  burning  in  a  tin  of  rifle-oil.  The 
air,  what  there  was  of  it,  was  thick  with  large, 
fat,  floating  particles  of  free  carbon.  The  tele- 
phone was  buzzing  plaintively  to  itself,  in  unsuc- 
cessful competition  with  a  well-modulated  quar- 
tette for  four  nasal  organs,  contributed  by  Bobby's 
entire  signalling  staff,  who,  locked  in  the  inex- 
tricable embrace  peculiar  to  Thomas  Atkins  in 
search  of  warmth,  were  snoring  harmoniously 
upon  the  earthen  floor. 

The  signaller  "on  duty"  —  one  M'Gurk — was 
extracted  from  the  heap  and  put  under  arrest  for 
sleeping  at  his  post.  The  enormity  of  his  crime 
was  heightened  by  the  fact  that  two  undelivered 
messages  were  found  upon  his  person. 

Divers  pains  and  penalties  followed.  Bobby 
supplemented  the  sentence  with  a  homily  on  the 
importance  of  vigilance  and  despatch.  M'Gurk, 
deeply  aggrieved  at  forfeiting  seven  days'  pay, 
said  nothing,  but  bided  his  time.  Two  nights  la- 
ter the  Battalion  came  out  of  trenches  for  a  week's 
rest,  and  Bobby,  weary  and  thankful,  retired  to 
bed  in  his  hut  at  9  p.m.,  in  comfortable  anticipa- 
tion of  a  full  night's  repose. 

His  anticipations  were  doomed  to  disappoint- 
ment. He  was  roused  from  slumber  —  not  with- 
out difficulty  —  by  Signaller  M'Gurk,  who  ap- 
peared standing  by  his  bedside  with  a  guttering 
candle-end  in  one  hand  and  a  pink  despatch-form 
in  the  other.  The  message  said:  — 

"Prevailing  wind  for  next  twenty-four  hours 
probably  S.W.,  with  some  rain." 


102  ALL  IN  IT 

Mindful  of  his  own  recent  admonitions,  Bobby 
thanked  M'Gurk  poUtely,  and  went  to  sleep  again. 

M'Gurk  called  again  at  half-past  two  in  the 
morning,  with  another  message,  which  an- 
nounced :  — 

"Baths  will  be  available  for  your  Company 
from  2  to  3  p.m.  to-morrow." 

Bobby  stuffed  the  missive  under  his  air-pillow, 
and  rolled  over  without  a  word.  M'Gurk  with- 
drew, leaving  the  door  of  the  hut  open. 

His  next  visit  was  about  four  o'clock.  This 
time  the  message  said :  — 

"A  ZeppeUn  is  reported  to  have  passed  over 
Dunkirk  at  5  p.m.  yesterday  afternoon,  proceed- 
ing in  a  northerly  direction." 

Bobby  informed  M'Gurk  that  he  was  a  fool  and 
a  dotard,  and  cast  him  forth. 

M'Gurk  returned  at  five-thirty,  with  one  more 
despatch.   It  said :  — 

"The  expression  'Pud'  will  no  longer  be  em- 
ployed in  official  correspondence." 

This  time  his  Company  Conmiander  promised 
him  that  if  he  appeared  again  that  night  he  would 
be  awarded  fourteen  days'  Field  Punishment 
Number  One. 

The  result  was  that  upon  sitting  down  to  break- 
fast at  nine  next  morning,  Bobby  found  upon  his 
plate  yet  another  message  —  from  his  Command- 
ing Officer  —  summoning  him  to  the  Orderly- 
room  on  urgent  matters  at  eight-thirty. 

But  Bobby  scored  the  final  and  winning  trick. 
Sending  for  M'Gurk  and  Sergeant  M'Micking,  he 
said:  — 

"This  man.  Sergeant,  appears  to  be  unable  to 


YE  MERRIE  BUZZERS  103 

decide  when  a  message  is  urgent  and  when  it  is 
not.  In  future,  whenever  M'Gurk  is  on  night 
duty,  and  is  in  doubt  as  to  whether  a  message 
should  be  deUvered  at  once  or  put  aside  till  morn- 
ing, he  will  come  to  you  and  ask  for  your  guidance 
in  the  matter.  Do  you  understand?" 

"Perrfectly,  sirr!"  replied  the  Sergeant,  out- 
wardly calm. 

"M'Gurk,  do  you  understand?" 

M'Gurk  looked  at  Bobby,  and  then  round  at 
Sergeant  M'Micking.  He  received  a  glance  which 
shrivelled  his  marrow.  The  game  was  up.  He 
grinned  sheepishly,  and  answered,  — 

"Yis,  sirr!" 

Ill 

Having  briefly  set  forth  the  character  and 
habits  of  the  Buzzer,  we  will  next  proceed  to  visit 
the  creatm-e  in  his  lair.  This  is  an  easy  feat.  We 
have  only  to  walk  up  the  communication-trench 
which  leads  from  the  reserve  line  to  the  firing-Une. 
Upon  either  side  of  the  trench,  neatly  tacked  to 
the  muddy  wall  by  a  device  of  the  hairpin  variety, 
run  countless  insulated  wires,  clad  in  coats  of 
various  colours  and  all  duly  ticketed.  These  radi- 
ate from  various  Headquarters  in  the  rear  to  nu- 
merous signal  stations  in  the  front,  and  were  laid 
by  the  Signallers  themselves.  (It  is  perhaps  un- 
necessary to  mention  that  that  single  wire  run- 
ning, in  defiance  of  all  regulations,  across  the  top 
of  the  trench,  which  neatly  tipped  your  cap  off 
just  now,  was  laid  by  those  playful  humourists, 
the  Royal  Artillery.)  It  follows  that  if  we  accom- 


104  ALL  IN  IT 

pany  these  wires  far  enough  we  shall  ultimately 
find  ourselves  in  a  signalling  station. 

Our  only  difficulty  Hes  in  judicious  choice,  for 
the  wires  soon  begin  to  diverge  up  numerous  by- 
ways. Some  go  to  the  fire-trench,  others  to  the 
machine-guns,  others  again  to  observation  posts, 
whence  a  hawk-eyed  Forward  Observing  Officer, 
peering  all  day  through  a  chink  in  a  tumble-down 
chimney  or  sandbagged  loop-hole,  is  sometimes 
enabled  to  flash  back  the  intelligence  that  he  can 
discern  transport  upon  such  a  road  in  rear  of  the 
Boche  trenches,  and  will  such  a  battery  kindly 
attend  to  the  matter  at  once? 

However,  chance  guides  us  to  the  Signal  dug- 
out of  ''A"  Company,  where,  by  the  best  fortune 
in  the  world.  Private  M'Gurk  in  person  is  in- 
stalled as  officiating  sprite.  Let  us  render  our- 
selves invisible,  sit  down  beside  him,  and  "tap" 
his  wire. 

In  the  dim  and  distant  days  before  such  phrases 
as  "Boche,"  and  "T.N.T.,"  and  "munitions," 
and  "profiteer"  were  invented;  when  we  hved  in 
houses  which  possessed  roofs,  and  never  dreamed 
of  lying  down  motionless  by  the  roadside  when  we 
heard  a  taxi-whistle  blown  thrice,  in  order  to  es- 
cape the  notice  of  approaching  aeroplanes,  —  in 
short,  in  the  days  immediately  preceding  the  war, 
—  some  of  us  said  in  our  haste  that  the  London 
Telephone  Service  was  The  Limit!  Since  then  we 
have  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  miUtary  field- 
telephone,  and  we  feel  distinctly  softened  towards 
the  young  woman  at  home  who,  from  her  dug-out 
in  "Gerrard,"  or  "Vic,"  or  "Hop.,"  used  to  goad 


YE  MERRIE  BUZZERS  105 

us  to  impotent  frenzy.  She  was  at  least  terse  and 
decided.  If  you  rang  her  up  and  asked  for  a  num- 
ber, she  merely  replied,  — 

(a)  ''Number  engaged"; 

(6)  "No  reply"; 

(c)  " Out  of  order"  — 
as  the  case  might  be,  and  switched  you  off. 
After  that  you  took  a  taxi  to  the  place  with  which 
you  wished  to  communicate,  and  there  was  an  end 
of  the  matter.  Above  all,  she  never  explained,  she 
never  wrangled,  she  spoke  tolerably  good  English, 
and  there  was  only  one  of  her  —  or  at  least  she 
was  of  a  uniform  type. 

Now,  if  you  put  your  ear  to  the  receiver  of  a 
field-telephone,  you  find  yourself,  as  it  were,  sud- 
denly thrust  into  a  vast  subterranean  cavern, 
filled  with  the  wailings  of  the  lost,  the  babblings  of 
the  feeble-minded,  and  the  profanity  of  the  exas- 
perated. If  you  ask  a  high-caste  Buzzer  —  say,  an 
R.E.  Signalling  Officer  —  why  this  should  be  so, 
he  will  look  intensely  wise  and  recite  some  solemn 
gibberish  about  earthed  wires  and  induced  cur- 
rents. 

The  noises  are  of  two  kinds,  and  one  supple- 
ments the  other.  The  human  voice  supplies  the 
libretto,  while  the  accompaniment  is  provided  by 
a  syncopated  and  tympanum-piercing  ping-ping, 
suggestive  of  a  giant  mosquito  singing  to  its 
young. 

The  instrument  with  which  we  are  contending 
is  capable  (in  theory)  of  transmitting  a  message 
either  telephonically  or  telegraphically.  In  prac- 
tice, this  means  that  the  signaller,  having  wasted 


106  ALL  IN  IT 

ten  sulphurous  minutes  in  a  useless  attempt  to 
convey  information  through  the  medium  of  the 
human  voice,  next  proceeds,  upon  the  urgent  ad- 
vice of  the  gentleman  at  the  other  end,  and  to  the 
confusion  of  all  other  inhabitants  of  the  cavern, 
to  "buzz"  it,  adapting  the  dots  and  dashes  of 
the  Morse  code  to  his  purpose. 

It  is  believed  that  the  wily  Boche,  by  means  of 
ingenious  and  delicate  instruments,  is  able  to 
"tap"  a  certain  number  of  our  trench  telephone 
messages.  If  he  does,  his  daily  Intelhgence  Re- 
port must  contain  some  surprising  items  of  in- 
formation. At  the  moment  when  we  attach  our 
invisible  apparatus  to  Mr.  M'Giu'k's  wire,  the 
Divisional  Telephone  system  appears  to  be  fairly 
evenly  divided  between  — 

(1)  A  Regimental  Headquarters  endeavouring 
to  ring  up  its  Brigade. 

(2)  A  glee-party  of  Harmonious  Blacksmiths, 
indulging  in  the  Anvil  Chorus. 

(3)  A  choleric  Adjutant  on  the  track  of  a 
peccant  Company  Commander. 

(4)  Two  Company  Signallers,  engaged  in  a 
friendly  chat  from  different  ends  of  the  trench 
line. 

(5)  An  Artillery  F.O.O.,  endeavouring  to  con- 
vey pressing  and  momentous  information  to  his 
Battery,  two  miles  in  rear. 

(6)  The  Giant  Mosquito  aforesaid. 

The  consoUdated  result  is  something  like 
this :  — 

Regimental  Headquarters  (affably).  Hallo, 
Brigade!  Hallo,  Brigade!  Hallo,  Brigade! 


YE  MERRIE  BUZZERS  107 

The  Mosquito.  Ping! 

The  Adjutant  {from  somewhere  in  the  Support 
Line,  fiercely).  Give  me  B  Company! 

The  Forward  Observing  Officer  (from  his 
eyrie).  Is  that  C  Battery?  There's  an  enemy 
working-party  — 

First  Chatty  Signaller  (from  B  Company's 
Station).  Is  that  yourseF,  Jock?  How's  a'  wi' 
you? 

Second  Chatty  Signaller  (from  D  Company's 
Station).  I'm  daen  fine!  How's  your  — 

Regimental  Headquarters.  Hallo,  Bri- 
gade! 

The  Adjutant.  Is  that  B  Company? 

A  Mysterious  and  Distant  Voice  (politely). 
No,  sir;  this  is  Akk  and  Esses  Aitch. 

The  Adjutant  (furiously).  Then  for  the 
Lord's  sake  get  off  the  Hne! 

The  Mosquito.  Ping!  Ping! 

The  Adjutant.  And  stop  that 

buzzing! 

The  Mosquito.  Ping!  Ping!  Ping! 

TheF.0.0.  Is  that  C  Battery?  There's  — 

First  Chatty  Signaller  (peevishly).  What's 
that  you're  sayin'? 

The  F.0.0.  (perseveringly) .  Is  that  C  Battery? 
There's  an  enemy  working-party  in  a  coppice 
at  — 

First  Chatty  Signaller.  This  is  Beer  Com- 
pany, sir.  Weel,  Jock,  did  ye  get  a  quiet  nicht? 

Second  Chatty  Signaller.  Oh,  aye.  There 
was  a  wee  — 

The  F.0.0.  Is  that  C  Battery?  There's  — 


108  ALL  IN  IT 

Second  Chatty  Signaller.  No,  sir.  This  is 
Don  Company.  Weel,  Jimmy,  there  was  a 
couple  whish-bangs  came  intil  — 

Regimental  Headquarters.  Hallo,  Bri- 
gade! 

A  Cheerful  Cockney  Voice.  Well,  my  lad, 
what  abaht  it? 

Regimental  Headquarters  (getting  to  work  at 
once).  Hold  the  Une,  Brigade.  Message  to  Staff 
Captain.  ''Ref.  your  S.C.  fourr  stroke  seeven 
eight  six,  the  worrking-parrty  in  question  — " 

The  F.0.0.  (seeing  a  gleam  of  hope).  Working- 
party?  Is  that  C  Battery?  I  want  to  speak  to  — 

The  Adjutant.  ^     r  t    ff  fh 

Brigade  Headquarters.  >         ,.     j 

Regimental  Headquarters,    j 

First  Chatty  Signaller.  Haw,  Jock,  was  ye 
hearin'  aboot  Andra? 

Second  Chatty  Signaller.  No.  Whit  was 
that? 

First  Chatty  Signaller.  Weel  — 

The  F.0.0.  (doggedly).  Is  that  C  Battery? 

Regimental  Headquarters  (resolutely).  "The 
worrking-parrty  in  question  was  duly  detailed  for 
tae  proceed  to  the  rendiss  vowse  at"  — 

The  Adjutant.  Is  that  B  Company,  curse 
you? 

Regimental  Headquarters  (quite  impervious 
to  this  sort  of  thing),  —  "the  rendiss  vowse,  at 
seeven  thirrty  Akk  Emma,  at  point  H  two  B 
eight  nine,  near  the  cross-roads  by  the  Estamint 
Repose  dee  Bicyclistees,  for  tae" — honklhonkle! 
honk! 


YE  MERRIE  BUZZERS  109 

Brigade  Headquarters  (compassionately). 
You're  makin'  a  'orrible  mess  of  this  message, 
ain't  you?  Shake  your  transmitter,  do! 

Regimental  Headquarters  (after  dutifully 
performing  this  operation).  Honkle,  honkle,  honk. 
Yang! 

Brigade  Headquarters.  Buzz  it,  my  lad, 
buzz  it! 

Regimental  Headquarters  (dutifully).  Ping, 
ping!  Ping,  ping!  Ping,  ping,  ping!  Ping  — 

General  Chorus.  Stop  that , , , 

buzzing! 

First  Chatty  Signaller.  Weel,  Andra  says 
tae  the  Sergeant-Major  of  Beer  Company,  says 
he  — 

The  Adjutant.  Is  that  B  Company? 

First  Chatty  Signaller.  No,  sir;  this  is  Beer 
Company. 

The  Adjutant  (fortissimo).  I  said  Beer 
Company! 

First  Chatty  Signaller.  Oh!  I  thocht  ye 
meant  Don  Company,  sir. 

The  Adjutant.  Why  the  blazes  have  n't  you 
answered  me  sooner? 

First  Chatty  Signaller  (tactfully).  There 
was  other  messages  comin'  through,  sir. 

The  Adjutant.  Well,  get  me  the  Company 
Commander. 

First  Chatty  Signaller.  Varra  good,  sirr. 

A  pause.  Regimental  Headquarters  being  engaged 
in  laboriously  "buzzing"  its  message  through  to  the 
Brigade,  all  other  conversation  is  at  a  standstill. 
The  Harmonious  Blacksmiths  seize  the  opportunity 


110  ALL  IN  IT 

to  give  a  short  selection.  Presently,  as  the  din  dies 
dovm  — 

The  F.0.0.  (Joint,  yet  'pursuing).  Is  that  C 
Battery? 

A  Jovial  Voice.  Yes. 

The  F.0.0.  What  a  shock!  I  thought  you  were 
all  dead.  Is  that  you,  Chumps? 

The  Jovial  Voice.  It  is.  What  can  I  do  for 
you  this  morning? 

The  f.0.0.  You  can  boil  your  signal  sentry's 
head! 

The  Jovial  Voice.  What  for? 

The  f.0.0.  For  keeping  me  waiting. 

The  Jovial  Voice.  Righto!  And  the  next 
article? 

The  f.0.0.  There's  a  Boche  working-party 
in  a  coppice  two  hundred  yards  west  of  a  point  — 

The  Mosquito  {with  renewed  vigour).  Ping, 
ping! 

The  f.0.0.  {savagely).  Shut  up! 

The  Jovial  Voice.  Working-party?  I  '11  settle 
them.  What's  the  map  reference? 

The  f.0.0.  They  are  in  Square  number  — 

The  Harmonious  Blacksmiths  {suddenly  and 
stunningly).  Whang! 

The  F.0.0.  Shut  up!  They  are  in  Square — 

First  Chatty  Signaller.  Hallo,  Headquar- 
ters! Is  the  Adjutant  there?  Here's  the  Captain 
tae  speak  with  him. 

An  Eager  Voice.  Is  that  the  Adjutant? 

Regimental  Headquarters.  No,  sirr.  He's 
away  tae  his  office.  Hold  the  line  while  I'll  — 

The  Eager  Voice.    No  you  don't!   Put  me 


YE  MERRIE  BUZZERS  111 

straight  through  to  C  Battery  —  quick!  Then 
get  off  the  Hne,  and  stay  there!  (Much  buzzing.) 
Is  that  C  Battery? 

The  Jovial  Voice.  Yes,  sir. 

The  Eager  Voice.  I  am  O.C.  Beer  Company. 
They  are  shelHng  my  front  parapet,  at  L  8,  with 
pretty  heavy  stuff.  I  want  retahation,  please. 

The  Jovial  Voice.  Very  good,  sir.  {The  voice 
dies  away.) 

A  Sound  over  our  Heads  (thirty  seconds  later). 
Whish!  Whish!  Whish! 

Second  Chatty  Signaller.  Did  ye  hear  that, 
Jimmy? 

First  Chatty  Signaller  (mth  relish).  Mphm! 
That'll  sorrt  them! 

The  F.0.0.  Is  that  C  Battery? 

The  Jovial  Voice.  Yes.  What  luck,  old  son? 

The  F.0.0.  You  have  obtained  two  direct  hits 
on  the  Boche  parapet.  Will  you  have  a  cocoanut 
or  a  ci 

The  Jovial  Voice.  A  little  less  lip,  my  lad! 
Now  tell  me  all  about  your  industrious  friends  in 
the  Coppice,  and  we  will  see  what  we  can  do  for 
them ! 

And  so  on.  Apropos  of  Adjutants  and  Com- 
pany Commanders,  Private  Wamphray,  whose 
acquaintance  we  made  a  few  pages  back,  was  ulti- 
mately reheved  of  his  position  as  a  Company  Sig- 
naller, and  returned  ignominiously  to  duty,  for 
tactless  if  justifiable  interposition  in  one  of  these 
very  dialogues. 

It  was  a  dark  and  cheerless  night  in  mid-winter. 


112  ALL  IN  IT 

Ominous  noises  in  front  of  the  Boche  wire  had 
raised  apprehensive  surmises  in  the  breast  of 
Brigade  Headquarters.  A  forward  sap  was  sus- 
pected in  the  region  opposite  the  sector  of  trenches 
held  by  "A"  Company.  The  trenches  at  this 
point  were  barely  forty  yards  apart,  and  there  was 
a  very  real  danger  that  Brother  Boche  might 
creep  under  his  own  wire,  and  possibly  under  ours 
too,  and  come  tumbling  over  our  parapet. 

To  Bobby  Little  came  instructions  to  send  a 
specially  selected  patrol  out  to  investigate  the 
matter.  Three  months  ago  he  would  have  led  the 
expedition  himself.  Now,  as  a  full-blown  Com- 
pany Commander,  he  was  officially  precluded 
from  exposing  his  own  most  responsible  person  to 
gratuitous  risks.  So  he  chose  out  that  recently- 
joined  enthusiast,  Angus  M'Lachlan,  and  put  him 
over  the  parapet  on  the  dark  night  in  question, 
accompanied  by  Corporal  M'Snape  and  two 
scouts,  with  orders  to  probe  the  mystery  to  its 
depth  and  bring  back  a  full  report. 

It  was  a  ticklish  enterprise.  As  is  frequently  the 
case  upon  these  occasions,  nervous  tension  mani- 
fested itself  much  more  seriously  at  Headquarters 
than  in  the  front-line  trenches.  The  man  on  the 
spot  is,  as  a  rule,  much  too  busy  with  the  actual 
execution  of  the  enterprise  in  hand  to  distress 
himself  by  speculation  upon  its  outcome.  It  may 
as  well  be  stated  at  once  that  Angus  duly  returned 
from  his  quest,  with  an  admirable  and  reassuring 
report.  But  he  was  a  long  time  absent.  Hence  this 
anecdote. 

Bobby  had  strict  orders  to  report  all  "develop- 


YE  MERRIE  BUZZERS  113 

ments,"  as  they  occurred,  to  Headquarters  by 
telephone.  At  half-past  eleven  that  night,  as 
Angus  M'Lachlan's  colossal  form  disappeared, 
crawling,  into  the  blackness  of  night,  his  superior 
officer  dutifully  rang  up  Battalion  Headquarters, 
and  announced  that  the  venture  was  launched. 
It  is  possible  that  the  Powers  Behind  were  in  pos- 
session of  information  as  to  the  enemy's  inten- 
tions unrevealed  to  Bobby;  for  as  soon  as  his  open- 
ing announcement  was  received,  he  was  switched 
right  through  to  a  very  august  Headquarters  in- 
deed, and  commanded  to  report  direct. 

Long-distance  telephony  in  the  field  ii^volves 
a  considerable  amount  of  "linking-up."  Among 
other  slaves  of  the  Buzzer  who  assisted  in  estab- 
lishing the  necessary  communications  upon  this 
occasion  was  Private  Wamphray.  For  the  next 
hour  and  a  half  it  was  his  privilege  in  his  subter- 
ranean exchange,  to  sit,  with  his  receiver  clamped 
to  his  ear,  an  unappreciative  auditor  of  dialogues 
like  the  following :  — 

"Is  that 'A'  Company?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Any  news  of  your  patrol?" 

"No,  sir." 

Again,  five  minutes  later:  — 

"Is  that 'A' Company?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Has  your  officer  returned  yet?" 

"No,  sir.  I  will  notify  you  when  he  does." 

This  sort  of  thing  went  on  until  nearly  one 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  Towards  that  hour, 
Bobby,  who  was  growing  really  concerned  over 


114  ALL  IN  IT 

Angus's  prolonged  absence,  cut  short  his  august 
interlocutor's  fifteenth  inquiry  and  joined  his 
Sergeant-Major  on  the  firing-step.  The  two  had 
hardly  exchanged  a  few  low-pitched  sentences 
when  Bobby  was  summoned  back  to  the  tele- 
phone. 

"Is  that  Captain  Little?" 

"Yes,  SU-." 

"Has  your  patrol  come  in?" 

"No,  sir." 

Captain's  Little's  last  answer  was  delivered  in  a 
distinctly  insubordinate  manner.  Feehng  slightly 
relieved,  he  returned  to  the  firing-step.  Two 
minutes  later  Angus  M'Lachlan  and  his  posse 
rolled  over  the  parapet,  safe  and  sound,  and 
Bobby  was  able,  to  his  own  great  content  and  that 
of  the  weary  operators  along  the  line,  to  an- 
nounce, — 

"The  patrol  has  returned,  sir,  and  reports 
everything  quite  satisfactory.  I  am  forwarding 
a  detailed  statement." 

Then  he  laid  down  the  receiver  with  a  happy 
sigh,  and  crawled  out  of  the  dug-out  on  to  the 
duck-board. 

"Now  we'll  have  a  look  round  the  sentries, 
Sergeant-Major,"  he  said. 

But  the  pair  had  hardly  rounded  three  traverses 
when  Bobby  was  haled  back  to  the  Signal  Station. 

"Why  did  you  leave  the  telephone  just  now?" 
inquired  a  cold  voice. 

"I  was  going  to  visit  my  sentries,  sir." 

"But  /  was  speaking  to  you." 

"I  thought  you  had  finished,  sir." 


YE  MERRIE  BUZZERS  115 

"I  had  not  finished.  If  I  had  finished,  I  should 
have  informed  you  of  the  fact,  and  would  have 
said 'Good-night!'" 

"How  does  one  choke  off  a  tripe-merchant  of 
this  type?"  wondered  the  exhausted  officer. 

From  the  bowels  of  the  earth  came  the  answer 
to  his  unspoken  question  —  delivered  in  a  strong 
Paisley  accent  — 

"For  Goad's  sake,  kiss  him,  and  say  'Good- 
Nicht,'  and  hae  done  with  it!" 

As  already  stated.  Private  Wamphray  was 
returned  to  his  platoon  next  morning. 

IV 

But  to  regard  the  Buzzer  simply  and  solely  as  a 
troglodyte,  of  sedentary  habits  and  caustic  tem- 
perament, is  not  merely  hopelessly  wrong:  it  is 
grossly  unjust.  Sometimes  he  goes  for  a  walk  — 
under  some  such  circumstances  as  the  following. 

The  night  is  as  black  as  Tartarus,  and  it  is 
raining  heavily.  Brother  Boche,  a  prey  to  nervous 
qualms,  is  keeping  his  courage  up  by  distributing 
shrapnel  along  our  communication-trenches.  Sig- 
nal-wires are  peculiarly  vulnerable  to  shrapnel. 
Consequently  no  one  in  the  Battalion  Signal  Sta- 
tion is  particularly  surprised  when  the  line  to 
"Akk"  Company  suddenly  ceases  to  perform  its 
functions. 

Signal-Sergeant  M'Micking  tests  the  instru- 
ment, glances  over  his  shoulder,  and  observes,  — 

"Line  BX  is  gone,  some  place  or  other.  Away 
you,  Duncan,  and  sorrt  it!" 


116  ALL  IN  IT 

Mr.  Duncan,  who  has  been  sitting  hunched 
over  a  telephone,  temporarily  quiescent,  smoking 
a  woodbine,  heaves  a  resigned  sigh,  extinguishes 
the  woodbine  and  places  it  behind  his  ear;  hitches 
his  repairing-wallet  nonchalantly  over  his  shoul- 
der, and  departs  into  the  night  —  there  to  grope 
in  several  inches  of  mud  for  the  two  broken  ends 
of  the  wire,  which  may  be  lying  fifty  yards  apart. 
Having  found  them,  he  proceeds  to  effect  a  junc- 
tion, his  progress  being  impeded  from  time  to 
time  by  further  bursts  of  shrapnel.  This  done,  he 
tests  the  new  connection,  reUghts  his  woodbine, 
and  splashes  his  way  back  to  Headquarters.  That 
is  a  Buzzer's  normal  method  of  obtaining  fresh 
air  and  exercise. 

More  than  that.  He  is  the  one  man  in  the  Army 
who  can  fairly  describe  himself  as  indispensable. 

In  these  days,  when  whole  nations  are  deployed 
against  one  another,  no  commander,  however 
eminent,  can  ride  the  whirlwind  single-handed. 
There  are  limits  to  individual  capacity.  There 
are  limits  to  direct  control.  There  are  limits  to 
personal  magnetism.  We  fight  upon  a  collective 
plan  nowadays.  If  we  propose  to  engage  in  battle, 
we  begin  by  welding  a  hundred  thousand  men  into 
one  composite  giant.  We  weld  a  hundred  thou- 
sand rifles,  a  million  bombs,  a  thousand  machine- 
guns,  and  as  many  pieces  of  artillery,  into  one 
huge  weapon  of  offence,  with  which  we  arm  our 
giant.  Having  done  this,  we  provide  him  with  a 
brain  —  a  blend  of  all  the  experience  and  wisdom 
and  miUtary  genius  at  our  disposal.  But  still 
there  is  one  thing  lacking  —  a  nervous  system. 


YE  MERRIE  BUZZERS  117 

Unless  our  giant  have  that,  —  unless  his  brain  is 
able  to  transmit  its  desires  to  his  mighty  limbs,  — 
he  has  nothing.  He  is  of  no  account;  the  enemy- 
can  make  butcher' s-meat  of  him.  And  that  is  why 
I  say  that  the  purveyor  of  this  nervous  system  — 
our  friend  the  Buzzer — is  indispensable.  You  can 
always  create  a  body  of  sorts  and  a  brain  of  sorts. 
But  unless  you  can  link  the  two  up,  you  are  fore- 
doomed to  failure. 

Take  a  small  instance.  Supposing  a  battalion 
advances  to  the  attack,  and  storms  an  isolated, 
exposed  position.  Can  they  hold  on,  or  can  they 
not?  That  question  can  only  be  answered  by  the 
Artillery  behind  them.  If  the  curtain  of  shell-fire 
which  has  preceded  the  advancing  battalion  to  its 
objective  can  be  "lifted"  at  the  right  moment  and 
put  down  again,  with  precision,  upon  a  certain 
vital  zone  beyond  the  captured  line,  counter- 
attacks can  be  broken  up  and  the  line  held.  But 
the  Artillery  lives  a  long  way  —  sometimes  miles 
—  in  rear.  Without  continuous  and  accurate  in- 
formation it  will  be  more  than  useless;  it  will 
be  dangerous.  (A  successful  attacking  party  has 
been  shelled  out  of  its  hardly  won  position  by  its 
own  artillery  before  now  —  on  both  sides!)  Some- 
times a  little  visual  signalling  is  possible:  some- 
times a  despatch-runner  may  get  back  through 
the  enemy's  curtain  of  fire;  but  in  the  main  your 
one  hope  of  salvation  hangs  upon  a  slender  thread 
of  insulated  wire.  And  round  that  wire  are  strung 
some  of  the  purest  gems  of  heroism  that  the  War 
has  produced. 

At  the  Battle  of  Loos,  half  a  battalion  of 


118  ALL  IN  IT 

"K(l)"  pushed  forward  into  a  very  advanced 
hostile  position.  There  they  hung,  by  their  teeth. 
Their  achievement  was  great;  but  unless  Head- 
quarters could  be  informed  of  their  exact  position 
and  needs,  they  were  all  dead  men.  So  Corporal 
Greig  set  out  to  find  them,  unreeling  wire  as  he 
went.  He  was  blown  to  pieces  by  an  eight-inch 
shell,  but  another  signaller  was  never  lacking  to 
take  his  place.  They  pressed  forward,  these  lacka- 
daisical noncombatants,  until  the  position  was 
reached  and  communication  established.  Again 
and  again  the  wire  was  cut  by  shrapnel,  and  again 
and  again  a  Buzzer  crawled  out  to  find  the  broken 
ends  and  piece  them  together.  And  ultimately, 
the  tiny,  exposed  limb  in  front  having  been  en- 
abled to  explain  its  exact  requirements  to  the 
brain  behind,  the  necessary  help  was  forthcoming 
and  the  Fort  was  held. 

Next  time  you  pass  a  Signaller's  Dug-out  peep 
inside.  You  will  find  it  occupied  by  a  coke  brazier, 
emitting  large  quantities  of  carbon  monoxide,  and 
an  untidy  gentleman  in  khaki,  with  a  blue-and- 
white  device  upon  his  shoulder-straps,  brooding 
over  a  small  black  instrument  and  luxuriating 
in  a  "frowst"  most  indescribable.  He  is  read- 
ing a  back  number  of  a  rural  Scottish  newspaper 
which  you  never  heard  of.  Occasionally,  in  re- 
sponse to  a  faint  buzz,  he  takes  up  his  transmitter 
and  indulges  in  an  unintelligible  altercation  with 
a  person  unseen.  You  need  feel  no  surprise  if  he 
is  wearing  the  ribbon  of  the  Distinguished  Con- 
duct Medal. 


VII 

PASTURES  NEW 
I 

The  outstanding  feature  of  to-day's  intelligence 
is  that  spring  is  coming  —  has  come,  in  fact. 

It  arrived  with  a  bump.  March  entered  upon 
its  second  week  with  seven  degrees  of  frost  and 
four  inches  of  snow.  We  said  what  was  natural 
and  inevitable  to  the  occasion,  wrapped  our  coats 
of  skins  more  firmly  round  us,  and  made  a  point  of 
attending  punctually  when  the  rum  ration  was 
issued. 

Forty-eight  hours  later  winter  had  disappeared. 
The  sun  was  blazing  in  a  cloudless  sky.  Aero- 
planes were  battling  for  photographic  rights  over- 
head; the  brown  earth  beneath  our  feet  was  put- 
ting forth  its  first  blades  of  tender  green.  The 
muck-heap  outside  our  rest-billet  displayed  un- 
mistakable signs  of  upheaval  from  its  winter  sleep. 
Primroses  appeared  in  Bunghole  Wood;  larks 
soared  up  into  the  sky  above  No  Man's  Land, 
making  music  for  the  just  and  the  unjust.  Snip- 
ers, smiling  cheerfully  over  the  improved  atmos- 
pheric conditions,  polished  up  their  telescopic 
sights.  The  artillery  on  each  side  hailed  the  birth 
of  yet  another  season  of  fruitfulness  and  natural 
increase  with  some  more  than  usually  enthusiastic 
essays  in  mutual  extermination.  Half  the  Mess 
caught  colds  in  their  heads. 


120  ALL  IN  IT 

Frankly,  we  are  not  sorry  to  see  the  end  of  win- 
ter. Caesar,  when  he  had  concluded  his  summer 
campaign,  went  into  winter  quarters.  Caesar,  as 
Colonel  Kemp  once  huskily  remarked,  knew 
something! 

Still,  each  man  to  his  taste.  Corporal  Muckle- 
wame,  for  one,  greatly  prefers  winter  to  smnmer. 

"In  the  winter,"  he  points  out  to  Sergeant 
M'Snape,  "a  body  can  breathe  withoot  swallow- 
ing a  wheen  bluebottles  and  bum-bees.  A  body 
can  aye  streitch  himself  doon  under  a  tree  for  a 
bit  sleep  withoot  getting  wasps  and  wee  beasties 
crawling  up  inside  his  kilt,  and  puddocks  craw- 
crawing  in  his  ear!  A  body  can  keep  himself  frae 
sweitin'  — " 

''He  can  that!"  assents  M'Snape,  whose  spare 
frame  is  more  vulnerable  to  the  icy  breeze  than 
that  of  the  stout  corporal. 

However,  the  balance  of  pubUc  opinion  is 
against  Mucklewame.  Most  of  us  are  unfeignedly 
glad  to  feel  the  warmth  of  the  sun  again.  That 
working-party,  filling  sandbags  just  behind  the 
machine-gun  emplacement,  are  actually  singing. 
Spring  gets  into  the  blood,  even  in  this  stricken 
land.  The  Boche  over  the  way  resents  our  efiforts 
at  harmony. 

Sing  us  a  song,  a  song  of  Bonnie  Scotland! 

Any  old  song  will  do. 
By  the  old  camp-fire,  the  rough-and-ready  choir 

Join  in  the  chorus  too. 
"You'll  tak'  the  high  road  and  I 'U  tak'  the  low  road"  — 

'T  is  a  song  that  we  all  know, 
To  bring  back  the  days  in  Bonnie  Scotland, 

Where  the  heather  and  the  bluebells  — 


PASTURES  NEW  121 

Whang! 

The  Boche,  a  Wagnerian  by  birth  and  upbring- 
ing, cannot  stand  any  more  of  this,  so  he  has  fired 
a  rifle-grenade  at  the  glee-party  —  on  the  whole 
a  much  more  honest  and  direct  method  of  con- 
demnation than  that  practiced  by  musical  critics 
in  time  of  peace.  But  he  only  elicits  an  encore. 
Private  Nigg  perches  a  steel  helmet  on  the  point 
of  a  bayonet,  and  patronisingly  bobs  the  same  up 
and  down  above  the  parapet. 

These  steel  helmets  have  not  previously  been 
introduced  to  the  reader's  notice.  They  are 
modelled  upon  those  worn  in  the  French  Army  — 
and  bear  about  as  much  resemblance  to  the  origi- 
nal pattern  as  a  Thames  barge  to  a  racing  yacht. 
When  first  issued,  they  were  greeted  with  pro- 
found suspicion.  Though  undoubtedly  service- 
able, —  they  saved  many  a  crown  from  cracking 
round  The  Bluff  the  other  day,  —  they  were  un- 
deniably heavy,  and  they  were  certainly  not  be- 
coming to  the  peculiar  type  of  beauty  rampant  in 
"K  (1)."  On  issue,  then,  their  recipients  elected 
to  regard  the  wearing  of  them  as  a  peculiarly  nox- 
ious form  of  "fatigue."  Private  M'A.  deposited 
his  upon  the  parapet,  like  a  foundling  on  a  door- 
step, and  departed  stealthily  round  the  nearest 
traverse,  to  report  his  new  headpiece  "lost 
through  the  exigencies  of  military  service."  Pri- 
vate M'B.  wore  his  insecurely  perched  upon  the 
top  of  his  tam-o'-shanter  bonnet,  where  it  looked 
like  a  very  large  ostrich  egg  in  a  very  small  khaki 
nest.  Private  M'C.  set  his  up  on  a  convenient 
post,  and  opened  rapid  fire  upon  it  at  a  range 


122  ALL  IN  IT 

of  six  yards,  surveying  the  resulting  holes  with 
the  gloomy  satisfaction  of  the  vindicated  pes- 
simist. Private  M'D.  removed  the  Uning  from 
his,  and  performed  his  ablutions  in  the  inverted 
crown. 

"This,"  said  Colonel  Kemp,  "will  never  do. 
We  must  start  wearing  the  dashed  things  our- 
selves." 

And  it  was  so.  Next  day,  to  the  joy  of  the  Bat- 
taUon,  their  officers  appeared  in  the  trenches  self- 
consciously wearing  what  looked  Uke  small  sky- 
blue  wash-hand  basins  balanced  upon  their  heads. 
But  discipline  was  excellent.  No  one  even  smiled. 
In  fact,  there  was  a  slight  reaction  in  favour  of  the 
helmets.  Conversations  like  the  following  were 
overheard :  — 

"I'm  tellin'  you,  Jimmy,  the  CO.  is  no  the 
man  for  tae  mak'  a  show  of  himself  like  that  for 
naething.  These  tin  bunnets  must  be  some  use. 
WuU  we  pit  oors  on?" 

"Awa'  hame,  and  bile  your  held!"  replied  the 
imresponsive  James. 

"They'll  no  stop  a  whish-bang,"  conceded  the 
apostle  of  progress,  "but  they  would  keep  off 
splunters,  and  a  wheen  bullets,  and  —  and  — " 

"And  the  rain!"  supplied  Jimmy  sarcastically. 

This  gibe  suddenly  roused  the  temper  of  the 
other  participant  in  the  debate. 

"  I  tell  you,"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  voice  shrill  with 

indignation,  "that  these helmets  are  some 

use!" 

"And  I  tell  yow,"  retorted  James  earnestly, 
"that  these helmets  are  no use!" 


PASTURES  NEW  123 

,  When  two  reasonable  persons  arrive  at  a  con- 
troversial impasse,  they  usually  agree  to  differ 
and  go  their  several  ways.  But  in  ''K  (1)"  we 
prefer  practical  solutions.  The  upholder  of  hel- 
mets hastily  thrust  his  upon  his  head. 

"I'll  show  you,  Jimmy!"  he  announced,  and 
clambered  up  on  the  firing-step. 

"And    I'll    well    show    you,    WulUe!" 

screamed  James,  doing  likewise. 

Simultaneously  the  two  zealots  thrust  their 
heads  over  the  parapet,  and  awaited  results. 
These  came.  The  rifles  of  two  Boche  snipers  rang 
out,  and  both  demonstrators  fell  heavily  back- 
wards into  the  arms  of  their  supporters. 

By  all  rights  they  ought  to  have  been  killed. 
But  they  were  both  very  much  alive.  Each 
turned  to  the  other  triumphantly,  and  ex- 
claimed, — 

"Itelltyeso!" 

There  was  a  hole  right  through  the  helmet  of 
Jimmy,  the  unbeliever.  The  fact  that  there  was 
not  also  a  hole  through  his  head  was  due  to  his 
forethought  in  having  put  on  a  tam-o'-shanter 
underneath.  The  net  result  was  a  truncated 
'^toorie."  Wullie's  bullet  had  struck  his  helmet 
at  a  more  obtuse  angle,  and  had  glanced  off,  as 
the  designer  of  the  smooth  exterior  had  intended 
it  to  do. 

At  first  glance,  the  contest  was  a  draw.  But 
subsequent  investigation  elicited  the  fact  that 
Jimmy  in  his  backward  fall  had  bitten  his  tongue 
to  the  effusion  of  blood.  The  verdict  was  therefore 
awarded,  on  points,  to  Wullie,  and  the  spectators 


124  ALL  IN  IT 

dispersed  in  an  orderly  manner  just  as  the  pla- 
toon sergeant  came  romid  the  traverse  to  change 
the  sentry. 

II 

We  have  occupied  our  own  present  trenches 
since  January.  There  was  a  time  when  this  sector 
of  the  line  was  regarded  as  a  Vale  of  Rest.  Bishops 
were  conducted  round  with  impunity.  Members 
of  Parliament  came  out  for  the  week-end,  and  re- 
turned to  their  constituents  with  first-hand  infor- 
mation about  the  horrors  of  war.  Foreign  joiu-nal- 
ists,  and  sight-seeing  parties  of  mimition-workers, 
picnicked  in  Bunghole  Wood.  In  the  village  be- 
hind the  Une,  if  a  chance  shell  removed  tiles  from 
the  roof  of  a  house,  the  owner,  greatly  incensed, 
moimted  a  ladder  and  put  in  some  fresh  ones. 

But  that  is  all  over  now.  "K  ( 1 ) " — hard-headed 
men  of  business,  bountifully  endowed  with  muni- 
tions—  have  arrived  upon  the  scene,  and  the 
sylvan  peace  of  the  surrounding  district  is  gone. 
Pan  has  dug  himself  in. 

The  trouble  began  two  months  ago,  when  our 
Divisional  Artillery  arrived.  Unversed  in  local 
etiquette,  they  commenced  operations  by  "send- 
ing up"  —  to  employ  a  vulgar  but  convenient 
catch-phrase  —  a  strongly  fortified  farmhouse  in 
the  enemy's  support  Une.  The  Boche,  by  way  of 
gentle  reproof,  deposited  four  or  five  small  "whizz- 
bangs"  in  our  front-line  trenches.  The  tenants 
thereof  promptly  telephoned  to  "Mother,"  and 
Mother  came  to  the  assistance  of  her  offspring 
with  a  salvo  of  twelve-inch  shells.    After  that, 


PASTURES  NEW  125 

Brother  Boche,  realising  that  the  golden  age  was 
past,  sent  north  to  the  Salient  for  a  couple  of 
heavy  batteries,  and  settled  down  to  shell  Bung- 
hole  village  to  pieces.  Within  a  week  he  had 
brought  down  the  church  tower:  within  a  fort- 
night the  population  had  migrated  farther 
back,  leaving  behind  a  few  patriots,  too  deeply 
interested  in  the  sale  of  small  beer  and  picture 
postcards  to  uproot  themselves.  Company  Head- 
quarters in  Bunghole  Wood  ceased  to  grow  prim- 
roses and  began  to  fill  sandbags. 

A  month  ago  the  village  was  practically  intact. 
The  face  of  the  church  tower  was  badly  scarred, 
but  the  houses  were  undamaged.  The  little  shops 
were  open;  children  played  in  the  streets.  Now, 
if  you  stand  at  the  cross-roads  where  the  church 
rears  its  roofless  walls,  you  will  understand  what 
the  Abomination  of  Desolation  means.  Occasion- 
ally a  body  of  troops,  moving  in  small  detach- 
ments at  generous  intervals,  trudges  by,  on  its 
way  to  or  from  the  trenches.  Occasionally  a  big 
howitzer  shell  swings  lazily  out  of  the  blue  and 
drops  with  a  crash  or  a  dull  thud  —  according  to 
the  degree  of  resistance  encountered  —  among 
the  crumbling  cottages.   All  is  solitude. 

But  stay !  Right  on  the  cross-roads,  in  the  centre 
of  the  village,  just  below  the  fingers  of  a  sign-post 
which  indicates  the  distance  to  f  oiu"  French  town- 
ships, whose  names  you  never  heard  of  until  a 
year  ago,  and  now  will  never  forget,  there  hangs 
a  large,  white,  newly  painted  board,  bearing  a 
notice  in  black  letters  six  inches  high.  Exactly 
underneath  the  board,  rubbing  their  noses  appre- 


126 


ALL  IN  IT 


datively  against  the  sign-post,  stand  two  mules, 
attached  to  a  Umbered  waggon,  the  property  of 
the  A.S.C.  Their  charioteers  are  sitting  adjacent, 
in  a  convenient  shell-hole,  partaking  of  luncheon. 

"That  was  a  rotten  place  we  'ad  to  wait  in 
yesterday,  Sammy,"  observes  Number  One.  "The 
draught  was  somethink  cruel." 

The  recumbent  Samuel  agrees.  ".This  little 
'oiler  is  a  bit  of  all  right,"  he  remarks.  "When 
you've  done  strarfin'  that  bully-beef,  'and  it 
over,  ole  man!" 

He  leans  his  head  back  upon  the  lip  of  the  shell- 
hole,  and  gazes  pensively  at  the  notice-board  six 
feet  away.  It  says:  — 


VERY  DANGEROUS. 

DO  NOT 

LOITER 

HERE. 


Ill 

Here  is  another  cross-roads,  a  good  mile  farther 
forward  —  and  less  than  a  hundred  yards  behind 
the  fire-trench.   It  is  dawn. 

The  roads  themselves  are  not  so  distinct  as  they 
were.  They  are  becoming  grass-grown:  for  more 
than  a  year  —  in  daylight  at  least  —  no  human 
foot  has  trodden  them.  The  place  is  Uke  hundreds 


PASTURES  NEW  127 

of  others  that  you  may  see  scattered  up  and 
down  this  countryside  —  two  straight,  flat,  met- 
alled country  roads,  running  north  and  south  and 
east  and  west,  crossing  one  another  at  a  faultless 
right  angle. 

Of  the  four  corners  thus  created,  one  is  —  or 
was  —  occupied  by  an  estaminet :  you  can  still  see 
the  sign,  Estaminet  au  Commerce,  over  the  door. 
Two  others  contain  cottages,  —  the  remains  of 
cottages.  At  the  fourth,  facing  south  and  east, 
stands  what  is  locally  known  as  a  ''Calvaire,"  — 
a  bank  of  stone,  a  lofty  cross,  and  a  life-size  figure 
of  Christ,  facing  east,  towards  the  German  lines. 

This  spot  is  shelled  every  day  —  has  been 
shelled  every  day  fur  months.  Possibly  the  enemy 
suspects  a  machine-gun  or  an  observation  post 
amid  the  tumble-down  buildings.  Hardly  one 
brick  remains  upon  another.  And  yet  —  the  sor- 
rowful Figure  is  unbroken.  The  Body  is  riddled 
with  bullets  —  in  the  glowing  dawn  you  may 
count  not  five  but  fifty  wounds  —  but  the  Face 
is  untouched.  It  is  the  standing  miracle  of  this 
most  materialistic  war.  Throughout  the  length 
of  France  you  will  see  the  same  thing. 

Agnostics  ought  to  come  out  here,  for  a  "cure." 

IV 

With  spring  comes  also  the  thought  of  the  Next 
Push. 

But  we  do  not  talk  quite  so  glibly  of  pushes  as 
we  did.  Neither,  for  that  matter,  does  Brother 
Boche.  He  has  just  completed  six  weeks'  pushing 
at  Verdun,  and  is  beginning  to  be  a  little  uncer- 


128  ALL  IN  IT 

tain  as  to  which  direction  the  pushing  is  coming 
from. 

No;  once  more  the  military  textbooks  are  be- 
ing rewritten.  We  started  this  war  under  one 
or  two  rather  fallacious  premises.  One  was  that 
Artillery  was  more  noisy  than  dangerous.  When 
Antwerp  fell,  we  rescinded  that  theory.  Then  the 
Boche  set  out  to  demonstrate  that  an  Attack, 
provided  your  Artillery  preparation  is  sufficiently 
thorough,  and  you  are  prepared  to  set  no  limit  to 
your  expenditure  of  Infantry,  must  ultimately 
succeed.  To  do  him  justice,  the  Boche  supported 
his  assertions  very  plausibly.  His  phalanx  bun- 
dled the  Russians  all  the  way  from  Tannenburg  to 
Riga.  The  Austrians  adopted  similar  tactics,  with 
similar  results. 

We  were  duly  impressed.  The  world  last  sum- 
mer did  not  quite  realize  how  far  the  results  of 
the  campaign  were  due  to  German  efficiency  and 
how  far  to  Russian  unpreparedness.  (Russia,  we 
realise  now,  found  herself  in  the  position  of  the 
historic  Mrs.  Partington,  who  endeavom-ed  to 
repel  the  Atlantic  with  a  mop.  This  year,  we 
understand,  she  is  in  a  position  to  discard  the 
mop  in  favour  of  something  far,  far  better.) 

Then  came  —  Verdun.  MiUtary  science  turned 
over  yet  another  page,  and  noted  that  against 
consummate  generalship,  unlimited  munitions, 
and  selfless  devotion  on  the  part  of  the  defence, 
the  most  spectacular  and  highly-doped  phalanx 
can  spend  itself  in  vain.  MiUtary  science  also 
noted  that,  under  modem  conditions,  the  capture 
of  this  position  or  that  signifies  nothing :  the  only 


PASTURES  NEW  129 

method  of  computing  victory  is  to  count  the  dead 
on  either  side.  On  that  reckoning,  the  French  at 
Verdun  have  akeady  gained  one  of  the  great  vic- 
tories of  all  time. 

"In  fact,"  said  Colonel  Kemp,  "this  war  will 
end  when  the  Boche  has  lost  so  many  men  as  to 
be  unable  to  man  his  present  trench-line,  and  not 
before." 

"You  don't  think,  sir,  that  we  shall  make  an- 
other Push?"  suggested  Angus  M'Lachlan  ea- 
gerly. The  others  were  silent:  they  had  experi- 
enced a  Push  already. 

"Not  so  long  as  the  Boche  continues  to  play 
our  game  for  us,  by  attacking.  If  he  tumbles  to 
the  error  he  is  making,  and  digs  himself  in  again 
—  well,  it  may  become  necessary  to  draw  him. 
In  that  case,  M'Lachlan,  you  shall  have  first  chop 
at  the  Victoria  Crosses.  Afraid  I  can't  recom- 
mend you  for  your  last  exploit,  though  I  admit  it 
must  have  required  some  nerve!" 

There  was  unseemly  laughter  at  this  allusion. 
Four  nights  previously  Angus  had  been  sent  out 
in  charge  of  a  wiring-party.  He  had  duly  crawled 
forth  with  his  satellites,  under  cover  of  darkness, 
on  to  No  Man's  Land;  and,  there  selecting  a  row 
of  "knife-rests"  which  struck  him  as  being  badly 
in  need  of  repair,  had  well  and  truly  reinforced 
the  same  with  many  strands  of  the  most  barbar- 
ous brand  of  barbed  wire.  This,  despite  more 
than  usually  fractious  behaviour  upon  the  part 
of  the  Boche. 

Next  morning,  through  a  sniper's  loophole,  he 
exhibited  the  result  of  his  labours  to  Major  Wag- 


130  ALL  IN  IT 

staffe.  The  Major  gazed  long  and  silently  upon 
his  subordinate's  handiwork.  There  was  no  mis- 
taking it.  It  stood  out  bright  and  gleaming  in  the 
rays  of  the  rising  sun,  amid  its  dingy  surroimdings 
of  rusty  ironmongery.  Angus  M'Lachlan  waited 
anxiously  for  a  little  praise. 

"Jolly  good  piece  of  work,"  said  Major  Wag- 
staff  e  at  last.  "But  tell  me,  why  have  you  re- 
paired the  Boche  wire  instead  of  your  own?" 

"The  only  enemy  we  have  to  fear,"  continued 
Colonel  Kemp,  rubbing  his  spectacles  savagely, 
"is  the  free  and  independent  British  voter  —  I 
mean,  the  variety  of  the  species  that  we  have  left 
at  home.  Like  the  gentleman  in  Jack  Point's 
song,  'He  likes  to  get  value  for  money';  and  he  is 
quite  capable  of  asking  us,  about  June  or  July, 
*if  we  know  that  we  are  paid  to  be  funny?'  — 
before  we  are  ready.  What's  yoiu*  view  of  the 
situation  at  home,  Wagstaffe?  You're  the  last 
off  leave." 

Wagstaffe  shook  his  head. 

"The  British  Nation,"  he  said,  "is  quite  mad. 
That  fact,  of  course,  has  been  common  property 
on  the  Continent  of  Europe  ever  since  Cook's 
Tours  were  invented.  But  what  irritates  the  or- 
derly Boche  is  that  there  is  no  method  in  its  mad- 
ness. Nothing  you  can  go  upon,  or  take  hold  of,  or 
wring  any  advantage  from." 

"As  how?" 

"Well,  take  compulsory  service.  For  genera- 
tions the  electorate  of  our  country  has  been 
trained  by  a  certain  breed  of  politician  —  the 


PASTURES  NEW  131 

Bandar-log  of  the  British  Constitution — to  howl 
down  such  a  low  and  degrading  business  as 
National  Defence.  A  nasty  Continental  custom, 
they  called  it.  Then  came  the  War,  and  the  glo- 
rious Voluntary  System  got  to  work." 

"Aided,"  the  Colonel  interpolated,  '^by  a  cam- 
paign of  mural  advertisement  which  a  cinema 
star's  press  agent  would  have  boggled  at!" 

''Quite  so,"  agreed  Wagstaffe.  "Next,  when 
the  Voluntary  System  had  done  its  damnedest — 
in  other  words,  when  the  willing  horse  had  been 
worked  to  his  last  ounce  —  we  tried  the  Derby 
Scheme.  The  manhood  of  the  nation  was  divided 
into  groups,  and  a  fresh  method  of  touting  for 
troops  was  adopted.  Married  shysters,  knowing 
that  at  least  twenty  groups  stood  between  them 
and  a  job  of  work,  attested  in  comparatively  large 
numbers.  The  single  shysters  were  less  reckless 
—  so  much  less  reckless,  in  fact,  that  compulsion 
began  to  materialise  at  last." 

"But  only  for  single  shysters,"  said  Bobby 
Little  regretfully. 

"Yes;  and  the  married  shyster  rejoiced  accord- 
ingly. But  the  single  shyster  is  a  most  subtle  rep- 
tile. On  examination,  it  was  found  that  the  sin- 
gle members  of  this  noble  army  of  martyrs  were 
all  'starred,'  or  'reserved',  or  'ear-marked'  —  or 
whatever  it  is  that  they  do  to  these  careful  fellows. 
So  the  poor  old  married  shyster,  who  had  only 
attested  to  show  his  blooming  patriotism  and 
encourage  the  others,  suddenly  found  himself 
confronted  with  the  awful  prospect  of  having  to 
defend  his  country  personally,  instead  of  by  let- 


132  ALL  IN  IT 

ter  to  the  halfpenny  press.  Then  the  fat  was  fairly 
in  the  fire!  The  married  martyr  — " 

"Come,  come,  old  man!  Not  all  of  them!" 
said  Colonel  Kemp.  "I  have  a  married  brother  of 
my  own,  a  solicitor  of  thirty-eight,  who  is  simply 
clamoming  for  active  service!" 

"I  know  that,  sir,"  admitted  Wagstaffe  quickly. 
"Thank  God,  these  fellows  are  only  a  minority, 
and  a  freak  minority  at  that;  but  freak  minorities 
seem  to  get  the  monopoly  of  the  limehght  in  our 
unhappy  country." 

"The  whole  affair,"  mused  the  Colonel,  "can 
hardly  be  described  as  a  frenzied  rally  round  the 
Old  Flag.  By  God,"  he  broke  out  suddenly,  "it 
fairly  makes  one's  blood  boil!  When  I  think  of  the 
countless  good  fellows,  married  and  single,  but 
mainly  married,  who  left  all  and  followed  the  call 
of  common  decency  and  duty  the  moment  the 
War  broke  out  —  most  of  them  now  dead  or  crip- 
pled; and  when  I  see  this  miserable  handful  of 
shirkers,  holding  up  vital  public  business  while 
the  pros  and  cons  of  their  wretched  claims  to 
exemption  are  considered  —  well,  I  almost  wish  I 
had  been  born  a  Boche!" 

"I  don't  think  you  need  apply  for  naturalisar 
tion  papers  yet.  Colonel,"  said  Wagstaffe.  "The 
country  is  perfectly  sound  at  heart  over  this  ques- 
tion, and  always  was.  The  present  agitation,  as  I 
say,  is  being  engineered  by  the  more  verminous 
section  of  our  incomparable  daily  Press,  for  its 
own  ends.  It  makes  our  Allies  hft  their  eyebrows 
a  bit;  but  they  are  sensible  people,  and  they  re- 
alise that  although  we  are  a  nation  of  lunatics, 


PASTURES  NEW  133 

we  usually  deliver  the  goods  in  the  end.  As  for 
the  Boche,  poor  fellow,  the  whole  business  makes 
him  perfectly  rabid.  Here  he  is,  with  all  his 
splendid  organisation  and  brutal  efficiency,  and 
he  can't  even  knock  a  dent  into  our  undisci- 
plined, back-chatting,  fool-ridden,  self-depreciat- 
ing old  country!  I,  for  one,  sympathise  with  the 
Boche  profoundly.  On  paper,  we  don't  deserve  to 
win!" 

"But  we  shall!"  remarked  that  single-minded 
paladin,  Bobby  Little. 

"Of  course  we  shall!  And  what's  more,  we  are 
going  to  derive  a  national  benefit  out  of  this  war 
which  will  in  itself  be  worth  the  price  of  admis- 
sion!" 

"How?"  asked  several  voices. 

Wagstaffe  looked  round  the  table.  The  Bat- 
talion were  for  the  moment  in  Divisional  Reserve, 
and  consequently  out  of  the  trenches.  Some  one 
had  received  a  box  of  Coronas  from  home,  and 
the  mess  president  had  achieved  a  bottle  of  port. 
Hence  the  present  symposium  at  Headquarters 
Mess.   Wagstaffe's  eyes  twinkled. 

"Will  each  officer  present,"  he  said,  "kindly 
name  his  pet  aversion  among  his  fellow-crea- 
tures?" 

"A  person  or  a  type?"  asked  Mr.  Waddell  cau- 
tiously. 

"A  type." 

Colonel  Kemp  led  off. 

"Male  ballet-dancers,"  he  said. 

"Fat,  shiny  men,"  said  Bobby  Little,  "with 
walrus  mustaches ! " 


134  ALL  IN  IT 

"All  conscientious  objectors,  passive  resisters, 
pacifists,  and  other  cranks!"  continued  the  ortho- 
dox Waddell. 

"All  people  who  go  on  strike  during  war-time," 
said  the  Adjutant.  There  was  an  approving  mur- 
mur —  then  silence. 

"Your  contribution,  M'Lachlan?"  said  Wag- 
staffe. 

Angus,  who  had  kept  silence  from  shyness,  sud- 
denly blazed  out :  — 

"I  think,"  he  said,  "that  the  most  contempti- 
ble people  in  the  world  to-day  are  those  poUticians 
and  others  who,  in  years  gone  by,  systematically 
cried  down  anything  in  the  shape  of  national  de- 
fence or  national  inclination  to  personal  service, 
because  they  saw  there  were  no  votes  in  such  a  pro- 
gramme; and  who  now"  —  Angus's  passion  rose 
to  fever-heat,  —  "stand  up  and  endeavour  to 
cultivate  popular  favour  by  reviling  the  Ministry 
and  the  Army  for  want  of  preparedness  and  ini- 
tiative. Such  men  do  not  deserve  to  hve!  Oh, 
sirs — " 

But  Angus's  peroration  was  lost  in  a  storm  of 
applause. 

"You  are  adjudged  to  have  hit  the  bull's-eye, 
M'Lachlan,"  said  Colonel  Kemp.  "But  tell  us, 
Wagstaffe,  yom*  exact  object  in  compiling  this 
horrible  catalogue." 

"Certainly.  It  is  this.  Universal  Service  is  a 
fait  accompli  at  last,  or  is  shortly  going  to  be  — 
and  without  anything  very  much  in  the  way  of 
exemption  either.  When  it  comes,  just  think  of  it! 
All  these  delightful  people  whom  we  have  been 


PASTURES  NEW  135 

enumerating  will  have  to  toe  the  line  at  last.  For 
the  first  time  in  their  little  lives  they  will  learn  the 
meaning  of  discipline,  and  fresh  air,  and  ispnt  de 
corps.  Is  n't  that  worth  a  war?  If  the  present 
scrap  can  only  be  prolonged  for  another  year,  our 
country  will  receive  a  tonic  which  will  carry  it  on 
for  another  century.  Think  of  it!  Great  Britain, 
populated  by  men  who  have  actually  been  outside 
their  own  parish;  men  who  know  that  the  whole 
is  greater  than  the  part;  men  who  are  too  wide 
awake  to  go  on  doing  just  what  the  Bandar-log  tell 
them,  and  allow  themselves  to  be  used  as  stalking- 
horses  for  low-down  political  ramps!  When  lye, 
going  round  in  bath-chairs  and  on  crutches,  see 
that  sight  —  well,  I  don't  think  we  shall  regret 
our  missing  arms  and  legs  quite  so  much.  Col- 
onel. War  is  Hell,  and  all  that;  but  there  is  one 
worse  thing  than  a  long  war,  and  that  is  a  long 
peace!" 

"I  wonder  !"  said  Colonel  Kemp  reflectively. 
He  was  thinking  of  his  wife  and  four  children  in 
distant  Argyllshire. 

But  the  rapt  attitude  and  quickened  breath  of 
Temporary  Captain  Bobby  Little  endorsed  every 
word  that  Major  Wagstaffe  had  spoken.  As  he 
rolled  into  his  "flea-bag"  that  night,  Bobby  re- 
quoted  to  himself,  for  the  hundredth  time,  a  pas- 
sage from  Shakespeare  which  had  recently  come 
to  his  notice.  He  was  not  a  Shakespearian  scholar, 
nor  indeed  a  student  of  literature  at  all;  but  these 
lines  had  been  sent  to  him,  cut  out  of  a  daily 
almanac,  by  an  equally  unlettered  and  very  ador- 
able confidante  at  home:  — 


136  ALL  IN  IT 

*"  "And  gentlemen  in  England  now  a-bed, 

Shall  think  themselves  accursed  they  were  not  here, 
And  hold  their  manhoods  cheap  whiles  any  speaks 
That  fought  with  us  upon  Saint  Crispin's  day!  " 

Bobby  was  the  sort  of  person  who  would  thor- 
oughly have  enjoyed  the  Battle  of  Agincourt. 


VIII 

'the  non-combatant" 


We  will  call  the  village  St.  Gr^goire.  That  is  not 
its  real  name;  because  the  one  thing  you  must  not 
do  in  war-time  is  to  call  a  thing  by  its  real  name. 
To  take  a  hackneyed  example,  you  do  not  call 
a  spade  a  spade:  you  refer  to  it,  officially,  as 
Shovels,  General  Service,  One.  This  helps  to  de- 
ceive, and  ultimately  to  surprise,  the  enemy;  and 
as  we  all  know  by  this  time,  surprise  is  the  essence 
of  successful  warfare.  On  the  same  principle,  if 
your  troops  are  forced  back  from  their  front-line 
trenches,  you  call  this  ''successfully  straightening 
out  an  awkward  sahent." 

But  this  by  the  way.  Let  us  get  back  to 
St.  Gr^goire.  Hither,  mud-splashed,  ragged,  hol- 
low-cheeked, came  oiu*  battalion  —  they  call  us 
the  Seventh  Hairy  Jocks  nowadays  —  after  foiu* 
months'  continuous  employment  in  the  firing-line. 
Ypres  was  a  household  word  to  them;  Plugstreet 
was  familiar  ground;  Givenchy  they  knew  inti- 
mately; Loos  was  their  wash-pot  —  or  rather,  a 
collection  of  wash-pots,  for  in  winter  all  the  shell- 
craters  are  full  to  overflowing.  In  addition  to  their 
prolonged  and  strenuous  labours  in  the  trenches, 
the  Hairy  Jocks  had  taken  part  in  a  Push  —  a 
part  not  altogether  unattended  with  glory,  but 
prolific  in  casualties.  They  had  not  been  "pulled 


138  ALL  IN  IT 

out"  to  rest  and  refit  for  over  six  months,  for 
Divisions  on  the  Western  Front  were  not  at 
that  period  too  numerous,  the  voluntary  system 
being  at  its  last  gasp,  while  the  legions  of  Lord 
Derby  had  not  yet  crystallised  out  of  the  ocean  of 
public  talk  which  held  them  in  solution.  So  the 
Seventh  Hairy  Jocks  were  bone  tired.  But  they 
were  as  hard  as  a  rigorous  winter  in  the  open 
could  make  them,  and  —  they  were  going  back  to 
rest  at  last.  Had  not  their  beloved  CO.  told  them 
so?  And  he  had  added,  in  a  voice  not  altogether 
free  from  emotion,  that  if  ever  men  deserved  a 
solid  rest  and  a  good  time,  "you  boys  do!" 

So  the  Hairy  Jocks  trudged  along  the  long, 
straight,  nubbly  French  road,  well  content,  spec- 
ulating with  comfortable  pessimism  as  to  the 
character  of  the  billets  in  which  they  would  find 
themselves. 

Meanwhile,  ten  miles  ahead,  the  advance  party 
were  going  round  the  town  in  quest  of  the  billets. 

Billet-hunting  on  the  Western  Front  is  not 
quite  so  desperate  an  affair  as  hunting  for  lodgings 
at  Margate,  because  in  the  last  extremity  you  can 
always  compel  the  inhabitants  to  take  you  in  — 
or  at  least,  exert  pressure  to  that  end  through  the 
Mairie.  But  at  the  best  one's  course  is  strewn 
with  obstacles,  and  fortunate  is  the  Adjutant  who 
has  to  his  hand  a  subaltern  capable  of  finding 
lodgings  for  a  thousand  men  without  making  a 
mess  of  it. 

The  billeting  oflBcer  on  this,  as  on  most  occa- 
sions, was  oui  friend  Cockerell,  —  affectionately 
known  to  the  entire  BattaUon  as  "Sparrow,"  — 


THE  NON-COMBATANT  139 

and  his  qualifications  for  the  post  were  derived 
from  three  well-marked  and  invaluable  charac- 
teristics, namely,  an  imperious  disposition,  a  thick 
skin,  and  an  attractive  bonhomie  of  manner. 

Behold  him  this  morning  dismounting  from  his 
horse  in  the  place  of  St.  Gr^goire.  Around  him  are 
grouped  his  satellites  —  the  Quartermaster-Ser- 
geant, four  Company  Sergeants,  some  odd  order- 
lies, and  a  forlorn  little  man  in  a  neat  drab  uni- 
form with  Ught  blue  facings,  —  the  regimental 
interpreter.  The  party  have  descended,  with  the 
delicate  care  of  those  who  essay  to  perform  acro- 
batic feats  in  kilts,  from  bicycles  —  serviceable 
but  appallingly  heavy  machines  of  Government 
manufacture,  the  property  of  the  ''Buzzers,"  but 
commandeered  for  the  occasion.  The  Quarter- 
master-Sergeant, who  is  not  accustomed  to  stren- 
uous exercise,  mops  his  brow  and  glances  expect- 
antly round  the  place.  His  eye  comes  gently  to 
rest  upon  a  snia,ll  but  hospitable-looking  estaminet. 

Lieutenant  Cockerell  examines  his  wrist-watch. 

' '  Half -past  ten ! "  he  announces.  ' '  Quartermas- 
ter-Sergeant!" 

''Sirr!"  The  Quartermaster-Sergeant  unglues 
his  longing  gaze  from  the  estaminet  and  comes 
woodenly  to  attention. 

"I  am  going  to  see  the  Town  Major  about  a 
billeting  area.  I  will  meet  you  and  the  party  here 
in  twenty  minutes." 

Master  Cockerell  trots  off  on  his  mud-splashed 
steed,  followed  by  the  respectful  and  apprecia- 
tive salutes  of  his  followers  —  appreciative,  be- 
cause a  less  considerate  officer  would  have  taken 


140  ALL  IN  IT 

the  whole  party  direct  to  the  Town  Major's  office 
and  kept  them  standing  in  the  street,  wasting 
moments  which  might  have  been  better  employed 
elsewhere,  until  it  was  time  to  proceed  with  the 
morning's  work. 

"How  strong  are  you?"  inquired  the  Town 
Major. 

Cockerell  told  him.  The  Town  Major  whistled. 

"That  all?  Been  doing  some  job  of  work, 
have  n't  you?" 

Cockerell  nodded,  and  the  Town  Major  pro- 
ceeded to  examine  a  large-scale  plan  of  St.  Gr^ 
goire,  divided  up  into  different-coloured  plots. 

"We  are  rather  full  up  at  present,"  he  said; 
"but  the  Cemetery  Area  is  vacant.  The  Seven- 
teenth Geordies  moved  out  yesterday.  You  can 
have  that."  He  indicated  a  triangular  section 
with  his  pencil. 

Master  Cockerell  gave  a  deprecatory  cough. 

"We  have  come  here,  sir,"  he  intimated  dryly, 
"for  a  change  of  scene." 

The  stout  Town  Major  —  all  Town  Majors  are 
stout  —  chuckled. 

' '  Not  bad  for  a  Scot ! "  he  conceded.  ' '  But  it 's 
quite  a  cheery  district,  really.  You  won't  have 
to  doss  down  in  the  cemetery  itself,  you  know. 
These  two  streets  here  — "he  flicked  a  pencil  — 
"will  hold  practically  all  yoiu*  battalion,  at  its 
present  strength.  There's  a  capital  house  in  the 
Rue  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau  which  will  do  for 
BattaHon  Headquarters.  The  corporal  over  there 
will  give  you  your  billets  de  logement" 


THE  NON-COMBATANT  141 

"Are  there  any  other  troops  in  the  area,  sir?" 
asked  Cockerell,  who,  as  already  indicated,  was 
no  child  in  these  matters. 

"There  ought  not  to  be,  of  course.  But  you 
know  what  the  Heavy  Gunners  and  the  A.S.C. 
are!  If  you  come  across  any  of  them,  fire  them 
out.  If  they  wear  too  many  stars  and  crowns  for 
you,  let  me  know,  and  I  will  perform  the  feat  my- 
self. You  fellows  need  a  good  rest  and  no  worries, 
I  know.   Good-morning." 

At  ten  minutes  to  eleven  Cockerell  found  the 
Quartermaster-Sergeant  and  party,  wiping  their 
mustaches  and  visibly  refreshed,  at  the  exact  spot 
where  he  had  left  them;  and  the  hunt  for  billets 
began. 

"A"  Company  were  easily  provided  for,  a  dere- 
lict tobacco  factory  being  encountered  at  the 
head  of  the  first  street.  Lieutenant  Cockerell 
accordingly  detached  a  sergeant  and  a  corporal 
from  his  train,  and  passed  on.  The  wants  of  ''B" 
Company  were  supplied  by  commandeering  a 
block  of  four  dilapidated  houses  farther  down  the 
street  —  all  in  comparatively  good  repair  except 
the  end  house,  whose  roof  had  been  disarranged 
by  a  shell  during  the  open  fighting  in  the  early 
days  of  the  war. 

This  exhausted  the  possibilities  of  the  first 
street,  and  the  party  debouched  into  the  second, 
which  was  long  and  straggling,  and  composed 
entirely  of  small  houses. 

"Now  for  a  bit  of  the  retail  business!"  said 
Master  Cockerell  resignedly.  "Sergeant  M'Nab, 
what  is  the  strength  of  'C  Company?" 


142  ALL  IN  IT 

"One  hunner  and  thairty-fower  other  ranks, 
sirr,"  announced  Sergeant  M'Nab,  consulting  a 
much-thumbed  roll-book. 

"We  shall  have  to  put  them  in  twos  and  threes 
all  down  the  street,"  said  Cockerell.  "Come  on; 
the  longer  we  look  at  it  the  less  we  shall  like  it. 
Interpreter!" 

The  forlorn  little  man,  already  described, 
trotted  up,  and  saluted  with  open  hand,  French 
fashion.  His  name  was  Baptiste  Bombominet 
("or  words  to  that  effect,"  as  the  Adjutant  put 
it),  and  may  have  been  so  inscribed  upon  the 
regimental  roll;  but  throughout  the  rank  and  file 
Baptiste  was  affectionately  known  by  the  generic 
title  of  "Alphonso."  The  previous  seven  years 
had  been  spent  by  him  in  the  congenial  and 
blameless  atmosphere  of  a  Ladies'  Tailor's  in  the 
west  end  of  London,  where  he  enjoyed  the  status 
and  emoluments  of  chief  cutter.  Now,  called  back 
to  his  native  land  by  the  voice  of  patriotic  obliga- 
tion, he  found  himself  selected,  by  virtue  of  a  resi- 
dence of  seven  years  in  England,  to  act  as  official 
interpreter  between  a  Scottish  Regiment  which 
could  not  speak  English,  and  Flemish  peasants 
who  could  not  speak  French.  No  wonder  that  his 
pathetic  brown  eyes  always  appeared  full  of  tears. 
However,  he  followed  Cockerell  down  the  street, 
and  meekly  embarked  upon  a  contest  with  the 
lady  inhabitants  thereof,  in  which  he  was  hope- 
lessly outmatched  from  the  start. 

At  the  first  door  a  dame  of  massive  proportions, 
but  keen  business  instincts,  announced  her  total 
inability  to  accommodate  soldats,  but  explained 


THE  NON-COMBATANT  143 

that  she  would  be  pleased  to  entertain  offixyl&rs  to 
any  number.  This  is  a  common  gambit.  Twenty 
British  privates  in  your  grenier,  though  extraordi- 
narily well-behaved  as  a  class,  make  a  good  deal 
of  noise,  buy  little,  and  leave  mud  everywhere. 
On  the  other  hand,  two  or  three  officers  give  no 
trouble,  and  can  be  relied  upon  to  consume  and 
pay  for  unlimited  omelettes  and  bowls  of  coffee. 

That  seasoned  vessel.  Lieutenant  Cockerell, 
turned  promptly  to  the  Sergeant  and  Corporal  of 
"C"  Company. 

"Sergeant  M'Nab,"  he  said,  "you  and  Cor- 
poral Downie  will  billet  here."  He  introduced 
hostess  and  guests  by  an  expressive  wave  of  the 
hand.  But  shrewd  Madame  was  not  to  be  bluffed. 

"Pas  de  sergentSy  Monsieur  le  Capitaine!"  she 
exclaimed.   ' '  Officiers  I ' ' 

"lis  sont  offLciers  —  sous-officiers,"  explained 
Cockerell,  rather  ingeniously,  and  moved  off 
down  the  street. 

At  the  next  house  the  owner  —  a  small,  wiz- 
ened lady  of  negligible  physique  but  great  stay- 
ing power  —  entered  upon  a  duet  with  Alphonso, 
which  soon  reduced  that  very  moderate  performer 
to  breathlessness.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders 
feebly,  and  cast  an  appealing  glance  towards  the 
Lieutenant. 

"What  does  she  say?"  inquired  Cockerell. 

"She  say  dis  'ouse  no  good,  sair I  She  'ave  seven 
children,  and  one  malade  —  seek." 

"Let  me  see,"  commanded  the  practical  officer. 

He  insinuated  himself  as  politely  as  possible 
past  his  reluctant  opponent,  and  walked  down  the 


144  ALL  IN  IT 

narrow  passage  into  the  kitchen.  Here  he  turned, 
and  inquired  — 

"Er  —  ouestla  pauvre  petite  chose?" 

Madame  promptly  opened  a  door,  and  dis- 
played a  little  girl  in  bed  —  a  very  flushed  and 
feverish  little  girl. 

Cockerell  grinned  sympathetically  at  the  pa- 
tient, to  that  young  lady's  obvious  gratification; 
and  tm-ned  to  the  mother. 

"Je  suis  trh  —  triste,"  he  said;  "fai  grand  mis- 
Sricorde.  Je  ne  placerai  pas  de  soldats  id.  Bon 
jour!" 

By  this  time  he  was  in  the  street  again.  He 
saluted  politely  and  departed,  followed  by  the 
grateful  regards  of  Madame. 

No  special  difficulties  were  encountered  at  the 
next  few  houses.  The  ladies  at  the  house-door 
were  all  polite;  many  of  them  were  most  friendly; 
but  naturally  each  was  anxious  to  get  as  few  men 
and  as  many  officers  as  possible  —  except  the 
proprietess  of  an  estaminet,  who  offered  to  accom- 
modate the  entire  regiment.  However,  with  a  lit- 
tle tact  here  and  a  little  fimmess  there.  Master 
Cockerell  succeeded  in  distributing  "C"  Com- 
pany among  some  dozen  houses.  One  old  gen- 
tleman, with  a  black  alpaca  cap  and  a  six-days 
beard,  proprietor  of  a  lofty  establishment  at  the 
corner  of  the  street,  proved  not  only  recalcitrant, 
but  abusive.   With  him  Cockerell  dealt  promptly. 

^'Qa  suffit!"  he  announced.  '^  Montrez-moi  vo- 
ire grenier!" 

The  old  man,  grumbling,  led  the  way  up  nu- 
merous rickety  staircases  to  the  inevitable  loft 


THE  NON-COMBATANT  145 

under  the  tiles.  This  proved  to  be  a  noble  apart- 
ment thirty  feet  long.  From  wall  to  wall  stretched 
innumerable  strings. 

"We  can  get  a  whole  platoon  in  here,"  said 
Cockerell  contentedly.  ''Tell  him,  Alphonso, 
These  people,"  he  explained  to  Sergeant  M'Nab, 
"always  dislike  giving  up  their  lofts,  because  they 
hang  their  laundry  there  in  winter.  However,  the 
old  boy  must  lump  it.  After  all,  we  are  in  this 
country  for  his  health,  not  oius;  and  he  gets  paid 
for  every  man  who  sleeps  here.  That  fixes  'C 
Company.  Now  for  'D'!  The  other  side  of  the 
street  this  time." 

Quarters  were  found  in  due  course  for  "D" 
Company;  after  which  Cockerell  discovered  a 
vacant  building-site  which  would  serve  for  trans- 
port lines.  An  empty  garage  was  marked  down 
for  the  Quartermaster's  ration  store,  and  the 
Quartermaster-Sergeant  promptly  faded  into  its 
recesses  with  a  grateful  sigh.  An  empty  shop 
in  the  Rue  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau,  conveniently 
adjacent  to  Battalion  Headquarters,  was  appro- 
priated for  that  gregarious  band,  the  regimental 
signallers  and  telephone  section;  while  a  suitable 
home  for  the  Anarchists,  or  Bombers,  together 
with  their  stock-in-trade,  was  found  in  the  base- 
ment of  a  remote  dwelling  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
area. 

After  this.  Lieutenant  Cockerell,  left  alone  with 
Alphonso  and  the  orderly  in  charge  of  his  horse, 
heaved  a  sigh  of  exhaustion  and  transferred  his 
attention  from  his  notebook  to  his  watch. 

"That  finishes  the  rank  and  file,"  he  said.   "I 


146  ALL  IN  IT 

breakfasted  at  four  this  morning,  and  the  bat- 
talion won't  arrive  for  a  couple  of  hours  yet. 
Alphonso,  I  am  going  to  have  an  omelette  some- 
where. I  shall  want  you  in  half  an  hour  exactly. 
Don't  go  wandering  off  for  the  rest  of  the  day, 
pinching  soft  billets  for  yourself  and  the  Sergeant- 
Major  and  your  other  pals,  as  you  usually  do!" 

Alphonso  saluted  guiltily  —  evidently  the  as- 
tute Cockerell  had  "touched  the  spot"  —  and 
was  turning  away,  when  suddenly  the  billeting 
officer's  eye  encountered  an  illegible  scrawl  at 
the  very  foot  of  his  list. 

"Stop  a  moment,  Alphonso!  I  have  forgot- 
ten those  condemned  machine-gunners,  as  usual. 
Strafe  them!  Come  on!  Once  more  into  the 
breach,  Alphonso!  There  is  a  little  side-alley 
down  here  that  we  have  not  tried." 

The  indefatigable  Cockerell  turned  down  the 
Rue  Gambetta,  followed  by  Alphonso,  faint  but 
resigned. 

"Here  is  the  very  place!"  announced  Cockerell 
almost  at  once.  "This  house,  Number  Five.  We 
can  put  the  gunners  and  their  little  guns  into  that 
stable  at  the  back,  and  the  officer  can  have  a  room 
in  the  house  itself.  Sonnez,  for  the  last  time  be- 
fore lunch!" 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  pleasant-faced 
young  woman  of  about  thirty,  who  greeted  Cock- 
erell— tartan  is  always  popular  with  French  ladies 
— with  a  beaming  smile,  but  shook  her  head  re- 
gretfully upon  seeing  the  hiUet  de  logement  in  his 
hand.  The  inevitable  duet  with  Alphonso  fol- 
lowed. Presently  Alphonso  turned  to  his  superior. 


THE  NON-COMBATANT  147 

"Madame  is  ver'  sorry,  sair,  but  an  officier  is 
here  already." 

"Show  me  the  officier!"  replied  the  prosaic 
Cockerell. 

The  duet  was  resumed. 

"Madame  say,"  announced  Alphonso  presently, 
"that  the  officier  is  not  here  now;  but  he  will 
retiu-n." 

"So  will  Christmas!  Meanwhile  I  am  going  to 
put  an  Emma  Gee  officer  in  here." 

Alphonso's  desperate  attempt  to  translate  the 
foregoing  idiom  into  French  was  interrupted  by 
Madame's  retirement  into  the  house,  whither  she 
beckoned  Cockerell  to  follow  her.  In  the  front 
room  she  produced  a  frayed  sheet  of  paper,  which 
she  proffered  with  an  apologetic  smile.  The  paper 
said :  — 

This  billet  is  entirely  reserved  for  the  Supply 
Officer  of  this  District.    It  is  not  to  be  occupied  by 
troops  passing  through  the  town. 
By  Order. 

Lieutenant  Cockerell  whistled  softly  and  vin- 
dictively through  his  teeth. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "for  consummate  and  con- 
centrated nerve,  give  me  the  underlings  of  the 
A.S.C. !  This  pot-bellied  blighter  not  only  butts 
into  an  area  which  does  n't  belong  to  him,  but 
actually  leaves  a  chit  to  warn  people  off  the  grass 
even  when  he  is  n't  here!  He  has  n't  signed  the 
document,  I  observe.  That  means  that  he  is  a 
newly  joined  subaltern,  trying  to  get  mistaken  for 
a  Brass  Hat!   I'll  fix /izW 


148  ALL  IN  IT 

With  great  stateliness  Lieutenant  Cockerell 
tore  the  offending  screed  into  four  portions,  to  the 
audible  concern  of  Madame.  But  the  Lieutenant 
smiled  reassuringly  upon  her. 

"Je  vous  donnerai  un  autre,  vous  savez,"  he 
assured  her. 

He  sat  down  at  the  table,  tore  a  leaf  from  his 
Field  Service  Pocket  Book,  and  wrote :  — 

The  Supply  Officer  of  the  District  is  at  liberty  to 
occupy  this  billet  only  at  such  times  as  it  is  not  re- 
quired by  the  troops  of  the  Combatant  Services. 
Signed,  F.  J.  Cockerell, 
Lieut.  &  Asst.  Adj., 

7th  B.  &  W.  Highes. 

"That's  a  pretty  nasty  one!"  he  observed  with 
relish.  Then,  having  pinned  the  insulting  docu- 
ment conspicuously  to  the  mantelpiece,  he  ob- 
served to  the  mystified  lady  of  the  house :  — 

"Voild,  Madame.  Si  Vofficier  reviendra,  je  le 
verrai  moi-meme,  avec  grand  plaisir.   Bon  jour  !" 

And  with  this  dark  saying  Sparrow  Cockerell 
took  his  departure. 

II 

The  Battalion,  headed  by  their  tatterdemalion 
pipers,  stumped  into  the  town  in  due  course,  and 
were  met  on  the  outskirts  by  the  billeting  party, 
who  led  the  various  companies  to  their  appointed 
place.  After  inspecting  their  new  quarters,  and 
announcing  with  gloomy  satisfaction  that  they 
were  the  worst,  dirtiest,  and  most  imcomfortable 
yet  encountered,  everybody  settled  down  in  the 


THE  NON-COMBATANT  149 

best  place  he  could  find,  and  proceeded  to  make 
himself  remarkably  snug. 

Battalion  Headquarters  and  the  officers  of  "A" 
Company  were  billeted  in  an  imposing  mansion 
which  actually  boasted  a  bathroom.  It  is  true 
that  there  was  no  water,  but  this  deficiency  was 
soon  made  good  by  a  string  of  officers'  servants 
bearing  buckets.  Beginning  with  Colonel  Kemp, 
who  was  preceded  by  an  orderly  bearing  a  small 
towel  and  a  large  loofah,  each  officer  performed  a 
ceremonial  ablution;  and  it  was  a  collection  of 
what  Major  Wagstaffe  termed  "bright  and  bonnj 
young  faces"  which  collected  round  the  Mess  ta- 
ble at  seven  o'clock. 

It  was  in  every  sense  a  gala  meal.  Firstly,  it 
was  weeks  since  any  one  (except  Second  Lieuten- 
ant M'Corquodale,  newly  joined,  and  addressed, 
for  painfully  obvious  reasons,  as  "Tich")  had 
found  himself  at  table  in  an  apartment  where  it 
was  possible  to  stand  upright.  Secondly,  the  Mess 
President  had  coaxed  glass  tumblers  out  of  the 
ancient  concierge;  and  only  those  who  have  drunk 
from  enamelled  ironware  for  weeks  on  end  can 
appreciate  the  piu-e  joy  of  escape  from  the  in- 
determinate metallic  flavour  which  such  vessels 
impart  to  all  beverages.  Thirdly,  these  same 
tumblers  were  filled  to  the  brim  with  inferior 
but  exhilarating  champagne  —  purchased,  as  they 
euphemistically  put  it  in  the  Supply  Column, 
"locally."  Lastly,  the  battaUon  had  several 
months  of  hard  fighting  behind  it,  probably  a  full 
month's  rest  before  it,  and  the  conscience  of  duty 
done  and  recognition  earned  floating  like  a  halo 


150  ALL  IN  IT 

above  it.  For  the  moment  memories  of  Night- 
mare Wood  and  the  Kidney  Bean  Redoubt  — 
more  especially  the  latter  —  were  eflfaced.  Even 
the  sorrowful  gaps  in  the  ring  round  the  table 
seemed  less  noticeable. 

The  menu,  too,  was  almost  pretentious.  First 
came  the  hors  d'ceuvres  —  a  tin  of  sardines.  This 
was  followed  by  what  the  Mess  Corporal  de- 
scribed as  a  savoury  omelette,  but  which  the 
Second-in-Command  condemned  as  "a  regretta- 
ble incident." 

"It  is  false  economy,"  he  observed  dryly  to  the 
Mess  President,  ''to  employ  Mark  One  ^  eggs  as 
anything  but  hand-grenades." 

However,  the  tide  of  popular  favour  turned 
with  the  haggis,  contributed  by  Lieutenant  Angus 
M'Lachlan,  from  a  parcel  from  home.  Even  the 
fact  that  the  Mess  cook,  an  inexperienced  aesthete 
from  Islington,  had  endeavoured  to  tone  down  the 
naked  repulsiveness  of  the  dainty  with  discreet 
festoons  of  tinned  macaroni,  failed  to  arouse  the 
resentment  of  a  piu'ely  Scottish  Mess.  The  next 
course  —  the  beef  ration,  hacked  into  the  inevi- 
table gobbets  and  thinly  disguised  by  a  sprinkUng 
of  ciury  powder  —  aroused  no  enthusiasm;  but 
the  unexpected  production  of  a  large  tin  of  Devon- 
shire cream,  contributed  by  Captain  Bobby  Lit- 
tle, relieved  the  canned  peaches  of  their  custom- 
ary monotony.  Last  of  all  came  a  savoiuy  — 
usually  described  as  the  savoury  —  consisting  of 
a  raft  of  toast  per  person,  each  raft  carrying  an 

*  In  the  British  army  each  issue  of  arms  or  equipment  re- 
ceives a  distinctive  "  Mark."   Mark  1  denotes  the  earliest  issue. 


THE  NON-COMBATANT  151 

abundant  cargo  of  fried  potted  meat,  and  pro- 
vided with  a  passenger  in  the  shape  of  a  recum- 
bent sausage. 

A  compound  of  grounds  and  dish-water,  de- 
scribed by  the  optimistic  Mess  Corporal  as  coffee, 
next  made  its  appearance,  mitigated  by  a  bottle 
of  Cointreau  and  a  box  of  Panatellas;  and  the 
Mess  turned  itself  to  more  intellectual  refresh- 
ment. A  heavy  and  long-overdue  mail  had  been 
found  waiting  at  St.  Gr^goire.  Letters  had  been 
devoured  long  ago.  Now,  each  member  of  the 
Mess  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  straightened  his 
weary  legs  under  the  table,  and  settled  down, 
cigar  in  mouth,  to  the  perusal  of  the  Spectator  or 
the  Tatler,  according  to  rank  and  literary  taste. 

Colonel  Kemp,  unfolding  a  week-old  Times, 
looked  over  his  glasses  at  his  torpid  disciples. 

"Where  is  young  Sandeman?"  he  inquired. 

Young  Sandeman  was  the  Adjutant. 

"He  went  out  to  the  Orderly  Room,  sir,  five 
minutes  ago,"  repHed  Bobby  Little. 

"I  only  want  to  give  him  to-morrow's  Orders. 
No  doubt  he'll  be  back  presently.  I  may  as  well 
mention  to  you  fellows  that  I  propose  to  allow  the 
men  three  clear  days'  rest,  except  for  bathing  and 
re-clothing.  After  that  we  must  do  Company 
Drill,  good  and  hard,  so  as  to  polish  up  the  new 
draft,  who  are  due  to-morrow.  I  am  going  to 
start  a  bombing-school,  too :  at  least  seventy-five 
per  cent  of  the  Battalion  ought  to  pass  the  test 
before  we  go  back  to  the  line.  However,  we  need 
not  rush  things.  We  should  be  here  in  peace  for  at 
least  a  month.  We  must  get  up  some  sports,  and 


152  ALL  IN  IT 

I  think  it  would  be  a  sound  scheme  to  have  a  sing- 
song one  Saturday  night.  I  was  just  saying,  San- 
deman,"  —  this  to  the  Adjutant,  who  reentered 
the  room  at  that  moment,  —  "that  it  would  be  a 
sound  — " 

The  Adjutant  laid  a  pink  field-telegraph  slip 
before  his  superior. 

"This  has  just  come  in  from  Brigade  Head- 
quarters, sir,"  he  said.  "I  have  sent  for  the 
Sergeant-Maj  or." 

The  Colonel  adjusted  his  glasses  and  read  the 
despatch.  A  deathly,  sickening  silence  reigned  in 
the  room.   Then  he  looked  up. 

"I  am  afraid  I  was  a  bit  previous,"  he  said 
quietly.  "The  Royal  Stickybacks  have  lost  the 
Kidney  Bean,  and  we  are  detailed  to  go  up  and 
retake  it.  Great  compliment  to  the  regiment,  but 
a  trifle  mistimed!  You  young  fellows  had  better 
go  to  bed.  Parade  at  4  a.m.,  sharp!  Good-night! 
Come  along  to  the  Orderly  Room,  Sandeman." 

The  door  closed,  and  the  Mess,  grinding  the 
ends  of  their  cigars  into  their  coffee-cups,  heaved 
themselves  resignedly  to  their  aching  feet. 

"There  ain't,"  quoted  Major  Wagstaffe,  "no 
word  in  the  blooming  language  for  it!" 

m 

The  Kidney  Bean  Redoubt  is  the  key  to  a  very 
considerable  sector  of  trenches. 

It  lies  just  behind  a  low  ridge.  The  two  horns 
of  the  bean  are  drawn  back  out  of  sight  of  the 
enemy,  but  the  middle  swells  forward  over  the  sky- 
line and  conmiands  an  extensive  view  of  the  coun- 


THE  NON-COMBATANT  153 

try  beyond.  Direct  observation  of  artillery  fire  is 
possible:  consequently  an  armoured  observation 
post  has  been  constructed  here,  from  which  gun- 
ner officers  can  direct  the  fire  of  their  batteries 
with  accuracy  and  elegance.  Lose  the  Kidney 
Bean,  and  the  boot  is  on  the  other  leg.  The  enemy 
has  the  upper  ground  now :  he  can  bring  observed 
artillery  fire  to  bear  upon  all  our  tenderest  spots 
behind  the  line.  He  can  also  enfilade  our  front- 
line trenches. 

Well,  as  already  stated,  the  Twenty-Second 
Royal  Stickybacks  had  lost  the  Kidney  Bean. 
They  were  a  battalion  of  recent  formation,  stout- 
hearted fellows  all,  but  new  to  the  refinements  of 
intensive  trench  warfare.  When  they  took  over  the 
sector,  they  proceeded  to  leave  undone  various 
vital  things  which  the  Hairy  Jocks  had  always 
made  a  point  of  doing,  and  to  do  vaiious  unnec- 
essary things  which  the  Hairy  Jocks  had  never 
done.  The  observant  Hun  promptly  recognised 
that  he  was  faced  by  a  fresh  batch  of  opponents, 
and,  having  carefully  studied  the  characteristics 
of  the  newcomers,  prescribed  and  administered 
an  exemplary  dose  of  frightfulness.  He  began 
by  tickling  up  the  Stickybacks  with  an  un- 
pleasant engine  called  the  Minenwerfer,  which 
despatches  a  large  sausage-shaped  projectile  in 
a  series  of  ridiculous  somersaults,  high  over  No 
Man's  Land  into  the  enemy's  front-line  trench, 
where  it  explodes  and  annihilates  everything  in 
that  particular  bay.  Upon  these  occasions  one's 
only  chance  of  salvation  is  to  make  a  rapid  calcu- 
lation as  to  the  bay  into  which  the  sausage  is  going 


164  ALL  IN  IT 

to  fall,  and  then  double  speedily  round  a  traverse 
—  or,  if  possible,  two  traverses  —  into  another. 
It  is  an  exhilarating  pastime,  but  presents  com- 
plications when  played  by  a  large  number  of  per- 
sons in  a  restricted  space,  especially  when  the 
persons  aforesaid  are  not  unanimous  as  to  the 
ultimate  landing-place  of  the  projectile. 

After  a  day  and  a  night  of  these  aerial  torpedoes 
the  Hun  proceeded  to  an  intensive  artillery  bom- 
bardment. He  had  long  coveted  the  Kidney 
Bean,  and  instinct  told  him  that  he  would  never 
have  a  better  opportunity  of  capturing  it  than 
now.  Accordingly,  two  hours  before  dawn,  the  Re- 
doubt was  subjected  to  a  sudden,  simultaneous, 
and  converging  fire  from  all  the  German  artillery 
for  many  miles  round,  the  whole  being  topped 
up  with  a  rain  of  those  crowning  instruments  of 
demoralisation,  gas-shells.  At  the  same  time  an 
elaborate  curtain  of  shrapnel  and  high  explosive 
was  let  down  behind  the  Redoubt,  to  serve  the 
double  purpose  of  preventing  either  the  sending 
up  of  reinforcements  or  the  temporary  withdrawal 
of  the  garrison. 

At  the  first  streak  of  dawn  the  bombardment 
was  switched  off,  as  if  by  a  tap;  the  curtain  fire 
was  redoubled  in  volume;  and  a  massed  attack 
swept  across  the  disintegrated  wire  into  the  shat- 
tered and  pulverised  Redoubt.  Other  attacks 
were  launched  on  either  flank;  but  these  were  ob- 
vious blinds,  intended  to  prevent  a  too  concen- 
trated defence  of  the  Kidney  Bean.  The  Royal 
Stickybacks  —  what  was  left  of  them  —  put  up  a 
tough  fight;  but  half  of  them  were  lying  dead  or 


THE  NON-COMBATANT  155 

buried,  or  both,  before  the  assault  was  launched, 
and  the  rest  were  too  dazed  and  stupefied  by 
noise  and  chlorine  gas  to  withstand  —  much  less 
to  repel  —  the  overwhelming  phalanx  that  was 
hurled  against  them.  One  by  one  they  went  down, 
until  the  enemy  troops,  having  swamped  the 
Redoubt,  gathered  themselves  up  in  a  fresh  wave 
and  surged  towards  the  reserve-line  trenches,  four 
hundred  yards  distant.  At  this  point,  however, 
they  met  a  strong  counter-attack,  launched  from 
the  Brigade  Reserve,  and  after  heavy  fighting 
were  bundled  back  into  the  Redoubt  itself.  Here 
the  German  machine-guns  had  staked  out  a  de- 
fensive line,  and  the  German  retirement  came  to 
a  standstill. 

Meanwhile  a  German  digging  party,  many 
hundred  strong,  had  been  working  madly  in  No 
Man's  Land,  striving  to  link  up  the  newly  ac- 
quired ground  with  the  German  lines.  By  the 
afternoon  the  Kidney  Bean  was  not  only  ''re- 
versed and  consoUdated,"  but  was  actually  in- 
cluded in  the  enemy's  front  trench  system.  Alto- 
gether a  well-planned  and  admirably  executed 
little  operation. 

Forty-eight  hours  later  the  Kidney  Bean  Re- 
doubt was  recaptured,  and  remains  in  British 
hands  to  this  day.  Many  arms  of  the  Service  took 
honourable  part  in  the  enterprise  —  heavy  guns, 
field  guns,  trench-mortars,  machine-guns;  Sap- 
pers and  Pioneers;  Infantry  in  various  capacities. 
But  this  narrd,tive  is  concerned  only  with  the  part 
played  by  the  Seventh  Hairy  Jocks. 

"Sorry  to  pull  you  back  from  rest,  Colonel," 


156  ALL  IN  IT 

said  the  Brigadier,  when  the  commander  of  the 
Hairy  Jocks  reported;  "but  the  Divisional  Gen- 
eral considers  that  the  only  feasible  way  to  himt 
the  Boche  from  the  Kidney  Bean  is  to  bomb  him 
out  of  it.  That  means  trench-fighting,  pm-e  and 
simple.  I  have  called  you  up  because  you  fellows 
know  the  ins  and  outs  of  the  Kidney  Bean  as  no 
one  else  does.  The  Brigade  who  are  in  the  line 
just  now  are  quite  new  to  the  place.  Here  is  an 
aeroplane  photograph  of  the  Redoubt,  as  at  pres- 
ent constituted.  Tell  off  your  own  bombing  par- 
ties; make  your  own  dispositions;  send  me  a  copy 
of  your  provisional  orders;  and  I  will  fit  my  plan 
in  with  yours.  The  Corps  Commander  has  prom- 
ised to  back  you  with  every  gun,  trench-mortar, 
culverin,  and  arquebus  in  his  possession." 

In  due  course  Battalion  Orders  were  issued  and 
approved.  They  dealt  with  operations  most  bar- 
barous amid  localities  of  the  most  homelike  sound. 
Number  Nine  Platoon,  for  instance  (Commander 
Lieutenant  Cockerell),  were  to  proceed  in  single 
file,  carrying  so  many  grenades  per  man,  up  Char- 
ing Cross  Road,  until  stopped  by  the  barrier 
which  the  enemy  were  understood  to  have  erected 
in  Trafalgar  Square,  where  a  bombing-post  and  at 
least  one  machine-gun  would  probably  be  encoun- 
tered. At  this  point  they  were  to  wait  until  Tra- 
falgar Square  had  been  suitably  dealt  with  by  a 
trench-mortar.  (Here  followed  a  paragraph  ad- 
dressed exclusively  to  the  Trench-Mortar  Officer.) 
After  this  the  bombers  of  Number  Three  Platoon 
would  bomb  their  way  across  the  Square  and  up 
the  Strand.    Another  party  would  clear  North- 


THE  NON-COMBATANT  157 

umberland  Avenue,  while  a  Lewis  gun  raked 
Whitehall.  And  so  on.  Every  detail  was  thought 
out,  down  to  the  composition  of  the  parties  which 
were  to  "clean  up"  afterwards  —  that  is,  extract 
the  reluctant  Boche  from  various  underground 
fastnesses  well  known  to  the  extractors.  The  whole 
enterprise  was  then  thoroughly  rehearsed  in  some 
dummy  trenches  behind  the  line,  until  every  one 
knew  his  exact  part.    Such  is  modern  warfare. 

Next  day  the  Kidney  Bean  Redoubt  was  in 
British  hands  again.  The  Hun  —  what  was  left 
of  him  after  an  intensive  bombardment  of  twenty- 
four  hours  —  had  betaken  himself  back  over  the 
ridge,  via  the  remnants  of  his  two  new  conmiuni- 
cation  trenches,  to  his  original  front  line.  The 
two  communication  trenches  themselves  were 
blocked  and  sandbagged,  and  were  being  heavily 
supervised  by  a  pair  of  British  machine-guns. 
Fighting  in  the  Redoubt  itself  had  almost  ceased, 
though  a  humorous  sergeant,  followed  by  acolytes 
bearing  bombs,  was  still  "combing  out"  certain 
residential  districts  in  the  centre  of  the  maze. 
Ever  and  anon  he  would  stoop  down  at  the  en- 
trance of  some  deep  dug-out,  and  bawl  — 

"Ony  mair  doon  there?  Come  away,  Fritz! 
I'll  gie  ye  five  seconds.   Yin,  Twa,  Three  — " 

Then,  with  a  rush  like  a  bolt  of  rabbits,  two  or 
three  close-cropped,  grimy  Huns  would  scuttle  up 
from  below  and  project  themselves  from  one  of 
the  exits;  to  be  taken  in  charge  by  grinning  Cale- 
donians wearing  "tin  hats"  very  much  awry,  and 
escorted  back  through  the  barrage  to  the  "pris- 
oners' base"  in  rear. 


158  ALL  IN  IT 

All  through  the  day,  amidst  unremittmg  shell 
fire  and  local  counter-attack,  the  Hairy  Jocks  re- 
consolidated  the  Kidney  Bean;  and  they  were 
so  far  successful  that  when  they  handed  over  the 
work  to  another  battalion  at  dusk,  the  parapet 
was  restored,  the  machine-guns  were  in  position, 
and  a  number  of  ''knife-rest"  barbed- wire  en- 
tanglements were  lying  just  behind  the  trench, 
ready  to  be  hoisted  over  the  parapet  and  joined 
together  in  a  continuous  defensive  line  as  soon  as 
the  night  was  sufficiently  dark. 

One  by  one  the  members  of  Number  Nine 
Platoon  squelched  —  for  it  had  rained  hard  all 
day  —  back  to  the  reserve  line.  They  were  ut- 
terly exhausted,  and  still  inclined  to  feel  a  little 
aggrieved  at  having  been  pulled  out  from  rest; 
but  they  were  well  content.  They  had  done  the 
State  some  service,  and  they  knew  it;  and  they 
knew  that  the  higher  powers  knew  it  too.  There 
would  be  some  very  flattering  reading  in  Divi- 
sional Orders  in  a  few  days'  time. 

Meanwhile,  their  most  pressing  need  was  for 
something  to  eat.  To  be  sure,  every  man  had 
gone  into  action  that  morning  carrying  his  day's 
rations.  But  the  British  soldier,  improvident  as 
the  grasshopper,  carries  his  day's  rations  in  one 
place,  and  one  place  only  —  his  stomach.  The 
Hairy  Jocks  had  eaten  what  they  required  at  their 
extremely  early  breakfast:  the  residue  thereof 
they  had  abandoned. 

About  midnight  Master  Cockerell,  in  obedi- 
ence to  a  most  welcome  order,  led  the  remnants 
of  his  command,  faint  but  triumphant,  back  from 


THE  NON-COMBATANT  159 

the  reserve  line  to  a  road  junction  two  miles  in 
rear,  known  as  Dead  Dog  Corner.  Here  the  Bat- 
talion was  to  rendezvous,  and  march  back  by  easy 
stages  to  St.  Gr^goire.    Their  task  was  done. 

But  at  the  cross-roads  Number  Nine  Platoon 
found  no  Battalion:  only  a  solitary  subaltern, 
with  his  orderly.  This  young  Casabianca  in- 
formed Cockerell  that  he.  Second  Lieutenant 
Candlish,  had  been  left  behind  to  ''bring  in  strag- 
glers." 

"Stragglers?"  exclaimed  the  infuriated  Cock- 
erell.  ''Do  we  look  like  stragglers?" 

"No,"  replied  the  youthful  Candlish  frankly; 
"you  look  more  like  sweeps.  However,  you  had 
better  push  on.  The  Battalion  is  n't  far  ahead. 
The  order  is  to  march  straight  back  to  St.  Gr^ 
goire  and  re-occupy  former  billets." 

"What  about  rations?" 

"Rations?  The  Quartermaster  was  waiting 
here  for  us  when  we  rendezvoused,  and  every  man 
had  a  full  ration  and  a  tot  of  rum."  (Number 
Nine  Platoon  cleared  their  parched  throats  ex- 
pectantly.) "But  I  fancy  he  has  gone  on  with  the 
column.  However,  if  you  leg  it  you  should  catch 
them  up.  They  can't  be  more  than  two  miles 
ahead.  So  long!" 

IV 

But  the  task  was  hopeless.  Number  Nine  Pla- 
toon had  been  bombing,  hacking,  and  digging  all 
day.  Several  of  them  were  slightly  wounded  — 
the  serious  cases  had  been  taken  off  long  ago  by 
the  stretcher-bearers  —  and  Cockerell's  own  head 


160  ALL  IN  IT 

was  still  dizzy  from  the  fumes  of  a  German  gas- 
shell. 

He  lined  up  his  disreputable  paladins  in  the 
darkness,  and  spoke  — 

"Sergeant  M'Nab,  how  many  men  are  pres- 
ent?" 

"Eighteen,  sirr."  The  platoon  had  gone  into 
action  thirty-four  strong. 

"How  many  men  are  deficient  of  an  emergency 
ration?  I  can  make  a  good  guess,  but  you  had 
better  find  out." 

Five  minutes  later  the  Sergeant  reported. 
Cockerell's  guess  was  correct.  The  British  pri- 
vate has  only  one  point  of  view  about  the 
portable  property  of  the  State.  To  him,  as  an 
individual,  the  sacred  emergency  ration  is  an  un- 
necessary encumbrance,  and  the  carrying  thereof 
a  "fatigue."  Consequently,  when  engaged  in  bat- 
tle, one  of  the  first  (of  many)  things  which  he  jet- 
tisons is  this  very  ration.  When  all  is  over,  he 
reports  with  unctuous  solenmity  that  the  prov- 
ender in  question  has  been  blown  out  of  his  hav- 
ersack by  a  shell.  The  Quartermaster-Sergeant 
writes  it  off  as  "lost  owing  to  the  exigencies  of 
military  service,"  and  indents  for  another. 

Lieutenant  Cockerell's  haversack  contained  a 
packet  of  meat-lozenges  and  about  half  a  pound 
of  chocolate.  These  were  presented  to  the  Ser- 
geant. 

"Hand  these  round  as  far  as  they  will  go,  Ser- 
geant," said  Cockerell.  "They'll  make  a  mouth- 
ful a  man,  anyhow.  Tell  the  platoon  to  he  down 
for  ten  minutes;  then  we'll  push  off.    It's  only 


THE  NON-COMBATANT  161 

fifteen  miles.  We  ought  to  make  it  by  breakfast- 
time  .  .  ." 

Slowly,  mechanically,  all  through  the  winter 
night  the  victors  hobbled  along.  Cockerell  led  the 
way,  carrying  the  rifle  of  a  man  with  a  wounded 
arm.  Occasionally  he  checked  his  bearings  with 
map  and  electric  torch.  Sergeant  M'Nab,  who, 
under  a  hirsute  and  attenuated  exterior,  con- 
cealed a  constitution  of  ferro-concrete  and  the 
heart  of  a  lion,  brought  up  the  rear,  uttering  fal- 
lacious assurances  to  the  faint-hearted  as  to  the 
shortness  of  the  distance  now  to  be  covered,  and 
carrying  two  rifles. 

The  customary  halts  were  observed.  At  ten 
minutes  to  four  the  men  flung  themselves  down 
for  the  third  time.  They  had  covered  about  seven 
miles,  and  were  still  eight  or  nine  from  St.  Gr^- 
goire.  The  everlasting  constellation  of  Verey 
lights  still  rose  and  fell  upon  the  eastern  horizon 
behind  them,  but  the  guns  were  silent. 

''There  might  be  a  Heavy  Battery  dug  in  some- 
where about  here,"  mused  Cockerell.  "I  wonder 
if  we  could  touch  them  for  a  few  tins  of  bully. 
Hallo,  what's  that?" 

A  distant  rumble  came  from  the  north,  and 
out  of  the  darkness  loomed  a  British  motor-lorry, 
lurching  and  swaying  along  the  rough  cobbles  of 
the  pave.  Some  of  Cockerell's  men  were  lying  dead 
asleep  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  right  at  the  junc- 
tion. The  lorry  was  going  twenty  miles  an  hour. 

"Get  into  the  side  of  the  road,  you  men!" 
shouted  Cockerell,  "or  they'll  run  over  you. 
You  know  what  tnese  M.T.  drivers  arel" 


162  ALL  IN  IT 

With  indignant  haste,  and  at  the  last  possible 
moment,  the  kilted  figures  scattered  to  either  side 
of  the  narrow  causeway.  The  usual  stereotyped 
and  vitriolic  remonstrances  were  hurled  after  the 
great  hooded  vehicle  as  it  lurched  past. 

And  then  a  most  unusual  thing  happened.  The 
lorry  slowed  down,  and  finally  stopped,  a  hun- 
dred yards  away.  An  officer  descended,  and  began 
to  walk  back.  Cockerell  rose  to  his  weary  feet 
and  walked  to  meet  him. 

The  officer  wore  a  major's  crown  upon  the 
shoulder-straps  of  his  sheepskin-Hned  "British 
Warm"  and  the  badge  of  the  Army  Service  Corps 
upon  his  cap.  Cockerell,  indignant  at  the  manner 
in  which  his  platoon  had  been  hustled  off  the 
road,  saluted  stiffly,  and  muttered:  "Good-morn- 
ing, sir!" 

"Good-morning!"  said  the  Major.  He  was  a 
stout  man  of  nearly  fifty,  with  twinkling  blue 
eyes  and  a  short-cUpped  mustache.  Cockerell 
judged  him  to  be  one  of  the  few  remnants  of  the 
original  British  Army. 

"I  stopped,"  explained  the  older  man,  "to 
apologise  for  the  scandalous  way  that  fellow  drove 
over  you.  It  was  perfectly  damnable;  but  you 
know  what  these  converted  taxi-drivers  are! 
This  swine  forgot  for  the  moment  that  he  had  an 
officer  on  board,  and  hogged  it  as  usual.  He  goes 
under  arrest  as  soon  as  we  get  back  to  billets." 

"Thank  you  very  much,  sir,"  said  Master 
Cockerell,  entirely  thawed.  "I'm afraid  my  chaps 
were  lying  all  over  the  road;  but  they  are  pretty 
well  down  and  out  at  present." 


THE  NON-COMBATANT  163 

"Where  have  you  come  from?"  inquired  the 
Major,  turning  a  curious  eye  upon  Gockerell's 
prostrate  followers. 

Cockerell  explained.  When  he  had  finished,  he 
added  wistfully  — 

''I  suppose  you  have  not  got  an  odd  tin  or  two 
of  bully  to  give  away,  sir?  My  fellows  are  about — " 

For  answer,  the  Major  took  the  Lieutenant 
by  the  arm  and  led  him  towards  the  lorry. 

"You  have  come,"  he  announced,  "to  the  very 
man  you  want.  I  am  practically  Mr.  Harrod. 
In  fact,  I  am  a  Corps  Supply  Officer.  How  would 
a  Maconochie  apiece  suit  your  boys?  " 

Cockerell,  repressing  the  ecstatic  phrases 
which  crowded  to  his  tongue,  repHed  that  that 
was  just  what  the  doctor  had  ordered. 

"Where  are  you  bound  for?"  continued  the 
Major. 

"St.  Gregoire." 

"Of  course.  You  were  pulled  out  from  there, 
were  n't  you?  I  am  going  to  St.  Gregoire  myself 
as  soon  as  I  have  finished  my  round.  Home  to 
bed,  in  fact.  I  have  n't  had  any  sleep  worth  writ- 
ing home  about  for  four  nights.  It  is  no  joke 
tearing  about  a  country  full  of  shell-holes,  hunt- 
ing for  people  who  have  shifted  their  ration-dump 
seven  times  in  foiu*  days.  However,  I  suppose 
things  will  settle  down  again,  now  that  you  fel- 
lows have  fired  Brother  Boche  out  of  the  Kidney 
Bean.  Pretty  fine  work,  too!  Tell  me,  what  is 
your  strength,  here  and  now?" 

"One  officer,"  said  Cockerell  soberly,  "and 
eighteen  other  ranks." 


164  ALL  IN  IT 

"All  that's  left  of  your  platoon?" 

Cockerell  nodded.  The  stout  Major  began  to 
beat  upon  the  tailboard  of  the  lorry  with  his 
stick. 

"Sergeant  Smurthwaite!"  he  shouted. 

There  came  a  muffled  grunt  from  the  recesses  of 
the  lorry.  Then  a  round  and  ruddy  face  rose  like 
a  harvest  moon  above  the  tailboard,  and  a  ster- 
torous voice  replied  respectfully  — 

"Sir?" 

"Let  down  this  tailboard;  load  this  officer's 
platoon  into  the  lorry;  issue  them  with  a  Maco- 
nochie  and  a  tot  of  rum  apiece;  and  don't  forget 
to  put  Smee  under  arrest  for  dangerous  driving 
when  we  get  back  to  billets." 

"Very  good,  sir." 

Ten  minutes  later  the  survivors  of  Number 
Nine  Platoon,  soaked  to  the  skin,  dazed,  slightly 
incredulous,  but  at  peace  with  all  the  world,  re- 
clined close-packed  upon  the  floor  of  the  swaying 
lorry.  Each  man  held  an  open  tin  of  Mr.  Macono- 
chie's  admirable  ration  between  his  knees.  Per- 
fect silence  reigned:  a  pleasant  aroma  of  rum 
mellowed  the  already  vitiated  atmosphere. 

In  front,  beside  the  chastened  Mr.  Smee,  sat 
the  Major  and  Master  Cockerell.  The  latter  had 
just  partaken  of  his  share  of  refreshment,  and  was 
now  endeavoiu-ing,  with  lifeless  fingers,  to  light  a 
cigarette. 

The  Major  scrutinised  his  guest  intently.  Then 
he  stripped  off  his  British  Warm  coat  —  incident- 
ally revealing  the  fact  that  he  wore  upon  his  tu- 
nic the  ribbons  of  both  South  African  Medals  and 


THE  NON-COMBATANT  165 

the  Distinguished  Service  Order  —  and  threw  it 
round  Cockerell's  shoulders. 

"I'm  sorry,  boy!"  he  said.  "I  never  noticed. 
You  are  chilled  to  the  bone.  Button  this  round 
you." 

Cockerell  made  a  feeble  protest,  but  was  cut 
short. 

''Nonsense!  There's  no  sense  in  taking  risks 
after  you've  done  your  job." 

Cockerell  assented,  a  little  sleepily.  His  allow- 
ance of  rum  was  bringing  its  usual  vulgar  but 
comforting  influence  to  bear  upon  an  exhausted 
system. 

"I  see  you  have  been  wounded,  sir,"  he  ob- 
served, noting  with  a  little  surprise  two  gold 
stripes  upon  his  host's  left  sleeve  —  the  sleeve  of 
a  "non-combatant." 

"Yes,"  said  the  Major.  "I  got  the  first  one  at 
Le  Cateau.  He  was  only  a  little  fellow;  but  the 
second,  which  arrived  at  the  Second  Show  at 
Ypres,  gave  me  such  a  stiff  leg  that  I  am  only  an 
old  crock  now.  I  was  second-in-command  of  an 
Infantry  Battalion  in  those  days.  In  these,  I  am 
only  a  peripatetic  Lipton.  However,  I  am  lucky 
to  be  here  at  all:  I've  had  twenty-seven  years' 
service.   How  old  are  you?" 

"Twenty,"  replied  Cockerell.  He  was  too  tired 
to  feel  as  ashamed  as  he  usually  did  at  having  to 
confess  to  the  tenderness  of  his  years. 

The  Major  nodded  thoughtfully. 

"Yes,"  he  said;  "I  judged  that  would  be  about 
the  figure.  My  son  would  have  been  twenty  this 
month,  only  —  he  was  at  Neuve  Chapelle.    He 


166  ALL  IN  IT 

was  very  like  you  in  appearance  —  very.  His 
mother  would  have  been  interested  to  meet  you. 
You  might  as  well  take  a  nap  for  half  an  hour.  I 
have  two  more  calls  to  make,  and  we  shan't  get 
home  till  nearly  seven.  Lean  on  me,  old  man. 
I  '11  see  you  don't  tumble  overboard  ..." 

So  Lieutenant  Cockerell,  conqueror  of  the 
Kidney  Bean,  fell  asleep,  his  head  resting,  with 
scandalous  disregard  for  military  etiquette,  upon 
the  shoulder  of  the  stout  Major. 


An  hour  or  two  later.  Number  Nine  Platoon, 
distended  with  concentrated  nom*ishment  and 
painfully  straightening  its  cramped  limbs,  de- 
canted itself  from  the  lorry  into  a  little  cul-de- 
sac  opening  off  the  Rue  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau  in 
St.  Gr6goire.  The  name  of  the  cuUde-sac  was  the 
Rue  Gambetta. 

Their  commander,  awake  and  greatly  refreshed, 
looked  round  him  and  realised,  with  a  sudden 
sense  of  uneasiness,  that  he  was  in  familiar  sur- 
roundings. The  lorry  had  stopped  at  the  door  of 
Number  Five. 

"I  don't  suppose  your  Battalion  will  get  back 
for  some  time,"  said  the  Major.  ''Tell  your  Ser- 
geant to  put  your  men  into  the  stable  behind  this 
house  —  there's  plenty  of  straw  there  —  and  — " 

"Their  own  billet  is  just  round  the  corner,  sir," 
replied  Cockerell.  ''They  might  as  well  go  there, 
thank  you." 

"Very  good.  But  come  in  with  me  yourself, 
and  doss  here  for  a  few  hours.  You  can  report  to 


THE  NON-COMBATANT  167 

your  CO.  later  in  the  day,  when  he  arrives.  This 
is  my  pied-a-terre,"  —  rapping  on  the  door.  ''You 
won't  find  many  billets  like  it.  As  you  see,  it 
stands  in  this  little  backwater,  and  is  not  in- 
cluded in  any  of  the  regular  billeting  areas  of 
the  town.  The  Town  Major  has  allotted  it  to  me 
permanently.  Pretty  decent  of  him,  was  n't  it? 
And  Madame  Vinot  is  a  dear.  Here  she  is!  Bon- 
jour,  Madame  Vinot!  Avez-vous  un  feu  —  er  — 
infiamme  pour  moi  dans  la  chambre  f  "  Evidently 
the  Major's  French  was  on  a  par  with  Cockerell's. 

But  Madame  understood  him,  bless  her! 

''Mais  oui,  M'sieur  le  Colonel!"  she  exclaimed 
cheerfully  —  the  rank  of  Major  is  not  recognised 
by  the  French  civilian  population  —  and  threw 
open  the  door  of  the  sitting-room,  with  a  glance 
of  compassion  upon  the  Major's  mud-splashed 
companion,  whom  she  failed  to  recognise. 

A  bright  fire  was  burning  in  the  open  stove. 

Immediately  above,  pinned  to  the  mantelpiece 
and  fluttering  in  the  draught,  hung  Cockerell's 
manifesto  upon  the  subject  of  non-combatants. 
He  could  recognise  his  own  handwriting  across 
the  room.   The  Major  saw  it  too. 

"Hallo,  what's  that  hanging  up,  I  wonder?" 
he  exclaimed.  ''A  memorandum  for  me,  I  expect; 
probably  from  my  old  friend  'Dados.'  ^  Let  us 
get  a  little  more  light." 

He  crossed  to  the  window  and  drew  up  the 
blind.  Cockerell  moved  too.  When  the  Major 
turned  round,  his  guest  was  standing  by  the  stove, 
his  face  scarlet  through  its  grime. 

1  D.A.D.O.S.  Deputy  Assistant  Director  of  Ordnance  Stores. 


168  ALL  IN  IT 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,  sir,"  said  Cockerell,  ''but 
that  notice  —  memorandum  —  of  yours  has 
dropped  into  the  fire." 

"If  it  came  from  Dados,"  replied  the  Major, 
"thank  you  very  much!" 

"I  can't  tell  you,  sir,"  added  Cockerell  hum- 
bly, "what  a  fool  I  feel." 

But  the  apology  referred  to  an  entirely  different 
matter. 


IX 

TUNING  UP 
I 

It  is  just  one  year  to-day  since  we  "came  oot." 
A  year  plays  havoc  with  the  "establishment"  of 
a  battalion  in  these  days  of  civilised  warfare.  Of 
the  original  band  of  stout-hearted  but  inexperi- 
enced Crusaders  who  crossed  the  Channel  in  the 
van  of  The  First  Hundred  Thousand,  in  May, 
1915,  —  a  regiment  close  on  a  thousand  strong, 
with  twenty-eight  officers,  —  barely  two  hun- 
dred remain,  and  most  of  these  are  Headquarters 
or  Transport  men.  Of  officers  there  are  five  — 
Colonel  Kemp,  Major  Wagstaffe,  Master  Cock- 
erell,  Bobby  Little,  and  Mr.  Waddell,  who,  by 
the  way,  is  now  Captain  Waddell,  having  suc- 
ceeded to  the  command  of  his  old  Company. 

Of  the  rest,  our  old  Colonel  is  in  Scotland,  es- 
saying ambitious  pedestrian  and  equestrian  feats 
upon  his  new  leg.  Others  have  been  drafted  to 
the  command  of  newer  units,  for  every  member  of 
"K  (1)"  is  a  Nestor  now.  Others  are  home,  in 
various  stages  of  convalescence.  Others,  alas!  will 
never  go  home  again.  But  the  gaps  have  all  been 
filled  up,  and  once  more  we  are  at  full  strength, 
comfortably  conscious  that  whereas  a  year  ago  we 
were  fighting  to  hold  a  line,  and  play  for  time,  and 
find  our  feet,  while  the  people  at  home  behind  us 
were  making  good,  now  we  are  fighting  for  one 


170  ALL  IN  IT 

thing  and  one  thing  only;  and  that  is,  to  admin- 
ister the  knock-out  blow  to  Brother  Boche. 

Our  last  casualty  was  Ayling,  who  left  us  under 
somewhat  unusual  circumstances. 

Towards  the  end  of  our  last  occupancy  of 
trenches  the  local  Olympus  decided  that  what 
both  sides  required,  in  order  to  awaken  them 
from  their  winter  lethargy,  or  spring  lassitude  (or 
whatever  it  is  that  Olympus  considers  that  we  in 
the  firing-line  are  suffering  from  for  the  moment), 
was  a  tonic.  Accordingly  orders  were  issued  for 
a  Flying  Matinee,  or  trench  raid.  Each  battalion 
in  the  Division  was  to  submit  a  scheme,  and  the 
battalion  whose  scheme  was  adjudged  the  best 
was  to  be  accorded  the  honour  —  so  said  the  Prac- 
tical Joke  Department  —  of  carrying  out  the 
scheme  in  person.  To  the  modified  rapture  of 
the  Seventh  Hairy  Jocks  their  plan  was  awarded 
first  prize.  Headquarters,  after  a  little  excusable 
recrimination  on  the  subject  of  unnecessary  zeal 
and  misguided  ambition,  set  to  work  to  arrange 
rehearsals  of  our  highly  unpopular  production. 

Brother  Boche  has  grown  "wise"  to  Flying 
Matinees  nowadays,  and  to  score  a  real  success 
you  have  to  present  him  with  something  com- 
paratively novel  and  unexpected.  However,  our 
scheme  had  been  carefully  thought  out;  and, 
given  sufficient  preparation,  and  an  adequate 
cast,  there  seemed  no  reason  to  doubt  that  the 
piece  would  have  a  highly  successful  run  of  one 
night. 

At  one  point  in  the  enemy's  trenches  opposite 
to  us  his  barbed-wire  defences  had  worn  very 


TUNING  UP  171 

thin,  and  steps  were  taken  by  means  of  system- 
atic machine-gun  fire  to  prevent  him  repairing 
them.  This  spot  was  selected  for  the  raid.  A 
party  of  twenty-five  was  detailed.  It  was  to  be 
led  by  Angus  M'Lachlan,  and  was  to  slip  over  the 
parapet  on  a  given  moonless  night,  crawl  across 
No  Man's  Land  to  within  striking  distance  of  the 
German  trench,  and  wait.  At  a  given  moment  the 
signal  for  attack  would  be  given,  and  the  wire  de- 
molished by  a  means  which  need  not  be  specified 
here.  Thereupon  the  raiding  party  were  to  dash 
forward  and  —  to  quote  the  Sergeant-Major  — 
"mix  themselves  up  in  it." 

Two  elements  are  indispensable  in  a  successful 
trench-raid  —  siu-prise  and  despatch.  That  is  to 
say,  you  must  deliver  your  raid  when  and  where 
it  is  least  expected,  and  then  get  home  to  bed  be- 
fore your  victims  have  had  time  to  set  the  machin- 
ery of  retaliation  in  motion.  Steps  were  therefore 
taken,  firstly,  to  divert  the  enemy's  attention  as 
far  as  possible  from  the  true  objective  of  the  raid, 
by  a  sudden  and  furious  bombardment  of  a  sector 
of  trenches  three  hundred  yards  away;  and  sec- 
ondly, to  ensure  as  far  as  possible,  that  the  raid, 
having  commenced  at  2  a.m.,  should  conclude  at 
2.12,  sharp. 

In  order  to  cover  the  retirement  of  the  excur- 
sionists, Ayling  was  ordered  to  arrange  for  ma- 
chine-gun fire,  which  should  sweep  the  enemy's 
parapet  for  some  hundreds  of  yards  upon  either 
flank,  and  so  encourage  the  enemy  to  keep  his 
head  down  and  mind  his  own  business. 

The  raid  itself  was  a  brilUant  success.    Dug- 


172  ALL  IN  IT 

outs  were  bombed,  emplacements  destroyed,  and 
a  respectable  bag  of  captives  brought  over.  But 
the  element  of  surprise,  upon  which  so  much  in- 
sistence was  laid  above,  was  visited  upon  both 
attackers  and  attacked.  To  the  former  the  con- 
tribution came  from  that  well-meaning  but  some- 
what addlepated  warrior.  Private  Nigg,  who 
formed  one  of  the  raiding  party. 

Nigg's  allotted  task  upon  this  occasion  was  to 
"comb  out"  certain  German  dug-outs.  (It  may 
be  mentioned  that  each  man  had  a  specific  duty 
to  perform,  and  a  specific  portion  of  the  trench 
opposite  to  perform  it  in;  for  the  raid  had  been 
rehearsed  several  times  in  a  dummy  trench  be- 
hind the  lines  constructed  exactly  to  scale  from  an 
aeroplane  photograph.)  For  this  purpose  he  was 
provided  with  bombs.  Shortly  before  two  o'clock 
in  the  morning  the  party,  headed  by  Angus 
M'Lachlan,  crawled  over  the  parapet  during  a 
brief  lull  in  the  activities  of  the  Verey  lights,  and 
crept  steadily,  on  hands  and  knees,  across  No 
Man's  Land.  Fifty  yards  from  the  enemy's  wire 
was  a  collection  of  shell-holes,  relics  of  a  burst  of 
misdirected  energy  on  the  part  of  a  six-inch  bat- 
tery. Here  the  raiders  disposed  themselves,  and 
waited  for  the  signal. 

Now,  it  is  an  undoubted  fact,  that  if  you  curl 
yourself  up,  with  two  or  three  preliminary  twirls, 
after  the  fashion  of  a  dog  going  to  bed,  in  a  per- 
fectly circular  shell-hole,  on  a  night  as  black  as 
the  inside  of  the  dog  in  question,  you  are  ex- 
tremely likely  to  lose  your  sense  of  direction. 
This  is  what  happened  to  Private  Nigg.   He  and 


TUNING  UP  173 

his  infernal  machines  lay  uneasily  in  their  ap- 
pointed shell-hole  for  some  ten  minutes,  sur- 
rounded by  Verey  lights  which  shot  suddenly  into 
the  sky  with  a  disconcerting  plop,  described  a 
graceful  parabola,  burst  into  dazzling  flame,  and 
fluttered  sizzling  down.  One  or  two  of  these  fell 
quite  near  Nigg's  party,  and  continued  to  burn 
upon  the  ground,  but  the  raiders  sank  closer  into 
their  shell-holes,  and  no  alarm  resulted.  Once  or 
twice  a  machine-gun  had  a  scolding  fit,  and  bul- 
lets whispered  overhead.  But,  on  the  whole,  the 
night  was  quiet. 

Then  suddenly,  with  a  shattering  roar,  the 
feint-artillery  bombardment  broke  forth.  Simul- 
taneously word  was  passed  along  the  raiding  line 
to  stand  by.  Next  moment  Angus  M'Lachlan 
and  his  followers  rose  to  their  feet  in  the  black 
darkness,  scrambled  out  of  their  nests,  and 
dashed  forward  to  the  accomplishment  of  their 
mission. 

When  Nigg,  who  had  paused  a  moment  to  col- 
lect his  bombs,  sprang  out  of  his  shell-hole,  not  a 
colleague  was  in  sight.  At  least,  Nigg  could  vsee 
no  one.  However,  want  of  courage  was  not  one  of 
his  faiUngs.  He  bounded  blindly  forward  by  him- 
self. 

Try  as  he  would  he  could  not  overtake  the  raid- 
ing party.  However,  this  mattered  little,  for  sud- 
denly a  parapet  loomed  before  him.  In  this  same 
parapet,  low  down,  Nigg  beheld  a  black  and  gap- 
ing aperture  —  plainly  a  loophole  of  some  kind. 

Without  a  moment's  hesitation,  Nigg  hurled  a 
Mills  grenade  straight  through  the  loophole,  and 


174  ALL  IN  IT 

then  with  one  wild  screech  of  "Come  away,  boys! " 
took  a  flying  leap  over  the  parapet  —  and  landed 
in  his  own  trench,  in  the  arms  of  Corporal  Muckle- 
wame. 

As  already  noted,  it  is  difficult,  when  lying 
curled  up  in  a  circular  shell-hole  in  the  dark,  to 
maintain  a  true  sense  of  direction. 

So  the  first-fruits  of  the  raid  was  Captain  Ay- 
ling,  of  the  Emnm  Gees.  He  had  stationed  himself 
in  a  concrete  emplacement  in  the  front  line,  the 
better  to  "observe"  the  fire  of  his  guns  when  it 
should  be  required.  Unfortunately  this  was  the 
destination  selected  by  the  misguided  Niggs  for 
his  first  (and  as  it  proved,  last)  bomb.  The  raid- 
ers came  safely  back  in  due  course,  but  by  that 
time  Ayling,  liberally  (but  by  a  miracle  not  dan- 
gerously) ballasted  with  assorted  scrap-iron,  was 
on  his  way  to  the  First  Aid  Post. 

n 

At  the  present  moment  we  are  right  back  at 
rest  once  more,  and  are  being  treated  with  a 
consideration,  amounting  almost  to  indulgence, 
which  convinces  us  that  we  are  being  "fattened 
up"  —  to  employ  the  gruesome  but  expressive 
phraseology  of  the  moment  —  for  some  particu- 
larly strenuous  enterprise  in  the  near  future. 

Well,  we  are  ready.  It  is  nine  months  since 
Loos,  and  nearly  six  since  we  scraped  the  night- 
mare mud  of  Ypres  from  our  boots,  gum,  thigh,  for 
the  last  time.  Our  recent  casualties  have  been 
light  —  our  only  serious  effort  of  late  has  been  the 
recapture  of  the  Kidney  Bean  —  the  new  drafts 


TUNING  UP  175 

have  settled  down,  and  the  young  officers  have 
been  blooded.  And  above  all,  victory  is  in  the  air. 
We  are  going  into  our  next  fight  with  new-born 
confidence  in  the  powers  behind  us.  Loos  was  an 
experimental  affair;  and  though  to  the  humble  in- 
struments with  which  the  experiment  was  made 
the  proceedings  were  less  hilarious  than  we  had 
anticipated,  the  results  were  enormously  valu- 
able to  a  greatly  expanded  and  entirely  untried 
Staff. 

''We  shall  do  better  this  time,"  said  Major 
Wagstaffe  to  Bobby  Little,  as  they  stood  watch- 
ing the  battalion  assemble,  in  workmanlike  fash- 
ion, for  a  route-march.  ''There  are  just  one  or  two 
little  points  which  had  not  occurred  to  us  then. 
We  have  grasped  them  now,  I  think." 

"Such  as?" 

"Well,  you  remember  we  all  went  into  the  Loos 
show  without  any  very  lucid  idea  as  to  how  far  we 
were  to  go,  and  where  to  knock  off  for  the  day,  so 
to  speak.  The  result  was  that  the  advance  of  each 
Division  was  regulated  by  the  extent  to  which  the 
German  wire  in  front  of  it  had  been  cut  by  our 
artillery.  Ours  was  well  and  truly  cut,  so  we  pene- 
trated two  or  three  miles.  The  people  on  our  left 
never  started  at  all.  Lord  knows,  they  tried  hard 
enough.  But  how  could  any  troops  get  through 
thirty  feet  of  uncut  wire,  enfiladed  by  machine- 
guns?  The  result  was  that  after  forty-eight 
hours'  fighting,  our  whole  attacking  front,  in- 
stead of  forming  a  nice  straight  line,  had  bagged 
out  into  a  series  of  bays  and  peninsulas." 

"Our  crowd  wasn't  even  a  peninsula,"  re- 


176  ALL  IN  IT 

marked  Bobby  with  feeling.  "For  an  hour  or  so 
it  was  an  island!" 

"  I  think  you  will  find  that  in  the  next  show 
we  shall  go  forward,  after  intensive  bombardment, 
quite  a  short  distance;  then  consolidate;  then 
wait  till  the  whole  line  has  come  up  to  its  ap- 
pointed objective;  then  bombard  again;  then  go 
forward  another  piece;  and  so  on.  That  will  make 
it  impossible  for  gaps  to  be  created.  It  will  also 
give  our  gunners  a  chance  to  cover  our  advance 
continuously.  You  remember  at  Loos  they  lost 
us  for  horn's,  and  dare  not  fire  for  fear  of  hitting 
us.  In  fact,  I  expect  that  in  battle  plans  of  the 
future,  instead  of  the  artillery  trying  to  conform 
to  the  movements  of  the  infantry,  matters  will 
be  reversed.  The  guns,  after  preliminary  bom- 
bardment, will  create  a  continuous  Niagara  of 
exploding  shells  upon  a  given  line,  marked  in 
everybody's  map,  and  timed  for  an  exact  period, 
just  beyond  the  objective;  and  the  infantry  will 
stroll  up  into  position  a  comfortable  distance  be- 
hind, reading  the  time-table,  and  dig  themselves 
in.  Then  the  barrage  will  lift  on  to  the  next  line, 
and  we  shall  toddle  forward  again.  That's  the 
new  plan,  Bobby!  Close  artillery  cooperation, 
and  a  series  of  limited  objectives!" 

"It  sounds  all  right,"  agreed  Bobby.  "We 
shall  want  a  good  many  guns,  though,  shan't  we?  " 

"We  shall.  But  don't  let  that  worry  you.  It  is 
simply  raining  guns  at  the  Base  now.  In  fact,  my 
grandmother  in  the  War  Office"  —  this  mythical 
relative  was  frequently  quoted  by  Major  Wag- 
stafTe,  and  certainly  her  information  had  several 


TUNING  UP  177 

times  proved  surprisingly  correct  —  'Hells  me 
that  by  the  beginning  of  next  year  we  shall  have 
enough  guns,  of  various  calibres,  to  make  a  con- 
tinuous line,  hub  to  hub,  from  one  end  of  our 
front  to  the  other," 

"Golly!"  observed  Captain  Little,  with  re- 
spectful relish. 

''That  means,"  continued  Wagstaffe,  "that 
we  shall  be  able  to  blow  Brother  Boche's  immedi- 
ate place  of  business  to  bits,  and  at  the  same  time 
take  on  his  artillery  with  counter-battery  work. 
Our  shell-supply  is  practically  unlimited  now; 
so  when  the  next  push  comes,  we  foot-sloggers 
ought  to  have  a  more  gentlemanly  time  of  it  than 
we  had  at  Loos  and  Wipers.  And  I  '11  tell  you  an- 
other thing,  Bobby.  We  shall  have  command  of 
the  air  too." 

"That  will  be  a  pleasant  change,"  remarked 
Bobby.  "  I  'm  getting  tired  of  putting  my  fellows 
under  arrest  for  rushing  out  of  carefully  concealed 
positions  in  order  to  gape  up  at  Boche  planes 
going  over.  Angus  M'Lachlan  is  as  bad  as  any  of 
them.   The  fellow— " 

"But  you  have  not  seen  many  Boche  planes 
lately?" 

"No.   Certainly  not  so  many." 

"And  the  number  will  grow  beautifully  less. 
Our  little  friends  in  the  R.F.C.  are  getting  fairly 
numerous  now,  and  their  machines  have  been  im- 
proved out  of  all  knowledge.  They  are  rapidly 
assmning  the  position  of  top  dog.  Moreover,  the 
average  Boche  does  not  take  kindly  to  fljning.  It 
is  too  —  too  individualistic  a  job  for  him.    He 


178  ALL  IN  IT 

likes  to  work  in  a  bunch  with  other  Boches,  where 
he  can  keep  step,  and  maintain  dressing,  and 
mark  time  if  he  gets  confused.  In  the  air  one  can- 
not mark  time,  and  it  worries  Fritz  to  death.  I 
think  you  will  see,  in  the  next  unpleasantness, 
that  we  shall  be  able  to  maintain  our  aeroplane 
frontier  somewhere  over  the  enemy  third  line. 
That  means  that  we  shall  make  our  own  disposi- 
tions with  a  certain  degree  of  privacy,  and  the 
Boche  will  not.  Also,  when  our  big  guns  get  to 
work,  they  will  not  need  to  fire  bUndly,  as  in  the 
days  of  our  youth,  but  will  be  directed  by  one  of 
our  R.F.C.  lads,  humming  about  in  his  Uttle  bus 
above  the  target,  perhaps  fifteen  miles  from  the 
gun.  Hallo,  there  go  the  pipes!  Tell  your  men 
to  faU  in." 

"The  whole  business,"  observed  Bobby,  as  he 
struggled  into  his  equipment,  ''sounds  so  attrac- 
tive that  I  am  beginning  quite  to  look  forward  to 
the  next  show!" 

''Don't  forget  the  Boche  machine-guns,  my 
lad,"  replied  Wagstaffe. 

"One  seldom  gets  the  chance,"  grumbled 
Bobby.  "Is  there  no  way  of  knocking  them  out? " 

"Well — "  Wagstaffe  looked  intensely  myste- 
rious—  "  of  course  one  never  knows,  but — have 
you  heard  any  rumours  on  the  subject?" 

"I  have.   About—" 

"About  the  Hush!  Hush!  Brigade?" 

Bobby  nodded. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "Young  Osborne,  my  best 
subaltern  after  Angus,  disappeared  last  month  to 
join  it.  Tell  me,  what  is  the  — " 


TUNING  UP  179 

"Hush!  Hush!"  said  Major  Wagstaffe.   ''MS-, 
fiez  vous!   Taisez  vous!  and  so  on!" 
The  battaUon  moved  off. 

So  much  for  the  war-talk  of  veterans.  Now  let 
us  listen  to  the  novices. 

"Bogle,"  said  Angus  M'Lachlan  to  his  hench- 
man, "I  think  we  shall  have  to  lighten  this 
Wolseley  valise  of  mine.  With  one  thing  and  an- 
other it  weighs  far  more  than  thirty-five  pounds." 

"That's  a  fact,  sirr,"  agreed  Mr.  Bogle.  "It 
carries  ower  mony  books  in  the  heid  of  it." 

They  shook  out  the  contents  of  the  valise  upon 
the  floor  of  Angus's  bedroom  —  a  loft  over  the 
kitchen  in  "A"  Company's  farm  billet  —  and  pro- 
ceeded  to  prune  Angus's  personal  effects.  There 
were  boots,  socks,  shaving-tackle,  maps,  packets 
of  chocolate,  and  books  of  every  size,  but  chiefly 
of  the  ever-blessed  sevenpenny  type. 

"A  lot  of  these  things  will  have  to  go,  Bogle," 
said  Angus  regretfully.  "The  colonel  has  warned 
officers  about  their  kits,  and  it  would  never  do  to 
have  mine  tm-ned  back  from  the  waggon  at  the 
last  minute." 

Mr.  Bogle  pricked  up  his  ears.  "The  waggon? 
Are  we  for  off  again,  sirr?"  he  inquired. 

"Indeed  I  could  not  say,"  replied  the  cautious 
Angus;  "but  it  is  well  to  be  ready." 

"The  boys  was  saying,  sirr,"  observed  Bogle 
tentatively,  "that  there  was  to  be  another  grand 
battle  soon." 

"It  is  more  than  likely,"  said  Angus,  with  an 
air  of  profound  wisdom.    "Here  we  are  in  Jxrne, 


ISO  ALL  IN  IT 

and  we  must  take  the  offensive,  sooner  or  later,  or 
summer  will  be  over." 

"What  kind  o'  a  battle  will  it  be  this  time, 
sirr?"  inquired  Bogle  respectfully. 

"Oh,  oiu"  artillery  will  pound  the  German 
trenches  for  a  week  or  two,  and  then  we  shall  go 
over  the  parapet  and  drive  them  back  for  miles," 
said  Angus  simply. 

"And  what  then,  sirr?" 

"What  then?  We  shall  go  on  pushing  them 
until  another  Division  reUeves  us." 

Bogle  nodded  comprehendingly.  He  now  had 
firmly  fixed  in  his  mind  the  essential  details  of 
the  projected  great  offensive  of  1916.  He  was 
not  interested  to  go  further  in  the  matter.  And 
it  is  this  very  faculty — philosophic  trust,  coupled 
with  absolute  lack  of  imagination  —  which  makes 
the  British  soldier  the  most  invincible  person  in 
the  world.  The  Frenchman  is  inspired  to  glorious 
deeds  by  his  great  spirit  and  passionate  love  of  his 
own  sacred  soil;  the  German  fights  as  he  thinks, 
like  a  machine.  But  the  British  Tommy  wins 
through  owing  to  his  entire  indifference  to  the 
pros  and  cons  of  the  tactical  situation.  He  settles 
down  to  war  like  any  other  trade,  and,  as  in  time 
of  peace,  he  is  chiefly  concerned  with  his  hoUdays 
and  his  creature  comforts.  A  battle  is  a  mere  inci- 
dent between  one  set  of  billets  and  another.  Con- 
sequently he  does  not  allow  the  grim  realities  of 
war  to  obsess  his  mind  when  off  duty.  One  might 
almost  ascribe  his  success  as  a  soldier  to  the  fact 
that  his  domestic  instincts  are  stronger  than  his 
military  instincts. 


TUNING  UP  181 

Put  the  average  Tommy  into  a  trench  under 
fire  how  does  he  comport  himself?  Does  he  begin 
by  striking  an  attitude  and  hurUng  defiance  at 
the  foe?  No,  he  begins  by  inquiring,  in  no  uncer- 
tain voice,  where  his  —  dinner  is?  He  then  exam- 
ines his  new  quarters.  Before  him  stands  a  para- 
pet, buttressed  mayhap  with  hurdles  or  balks  of 
timber,  the  whole  being  designed  to  preserve  his 
life  from  hostile  projectiles.  How  does  he  treat 
this  bulwark?  Unless  closely  watched,  he  will 
begin  to  chop  it  up  for  firewood.  His  next  pro- 
ceeding is  to  construct  for  himself  a  place  of  shel- 
ter. This  sounds  a  sensible  proceeding,  but  here 
again  it  is  a  case  of  "safety  second."  A  British 
Tommy  regards  himself  as  completely  protected 
from  the  assaults  of  his  enemies  if  he  can  lay  a 
sheet  of  corrugated-iron  roofing  across  his  bit  of 
trench  and  sit  underneath  it.  At  any  rate  it  keeps 
the  rain  off,  and  that  is  all  that  his  instincts 
demand  of  him.  An  oimce  of  comfort  is  worth 
a  pound  of  security. 

He  looks  about  him.  The  parapet  here  requires 
fresh  sandbags;  there  the  trench  needs  pumping 
out.  Does  he  fill  sandbags,  or  pump,  of  his  own 
voUtion?  Not  at  all.  Unless  remorselessly  super- 
vised, he  will  devote  the  rest  of  the  morning  to 
inventing  and  chalking  up  a  title  for  his  new  dug- 
out—  "Jock's  Lodge,"  or  "Bums'  Cottage," 
or  "Cyclists'  Rest"  —  supplemented  by  a  cau- 
tionary notice,  such  as  —  No  Admittance.  This 
Means  You.  Thereafter,  with  shells  whistling 
over  his  head,  he  will  decorate  the  parapet  in  his 
immediate  vicinity  with  picture  postcards  and 


182  ALL  IN  IT 

cigarette  photographs.  Then  he  leans  back  with 
a  happy  sigh.  His  work  is  done.  His  home  from 
home  is  fm-nished.  He  is  now  at  leism-e  to  think 
about  "they  Gairmans"  again.  That  may  sound 
like  an  exaggeration;  but  ''Comfort  First"  is  the 
motto  of  that  lovable  but  imprudent  grasshopper, 
Thomas  Atkins,  all  the  time. 

A  sudden  and  pertinent  thought  occurred  to 
Mr.  Bogle,  who  possessed  a  Martha-like  nature. 

"What  way,  sir,  will  a  body  get  his  dinner,  if 
we  are  to  be  fighting  for  twa-three  days  on  end?  " 

"Every  man,"  replied  Angus,  "will  be  issued, 
I  expect,  with  two  days'  rations.  But  the  Colonel 
tells  me  that  during  hard  fighting  a  man  does  not 
feel  the  desire  for  food  —  or  sleep  either  for  that 
matter.  Perhaps,  diu-ing  a  lull,  it  may  occur  to 
him  that  he  has  not  eaten  since  yesterday,  and  he 
may  pull  out  a  bit  of  biscuit  or  chocolate  from  his 
pocket,  just  to  nibble.  Or  he  may  remember  that 
he  has  had  no  sleep  for  twenty-four  hours  —  so  he 
just  drops  down  and  sleeps  for  ten  minutes  while 
there  is  time.  But  generally,  matters  of  ordinary 
routine  drop  out  of  a  man's  thoughts  altogether." 

"That's  a  queer-like  thing,  a  body  forgetting 
his  dinner!"  murmured  Bogle. 

"Of  course,"  continued  Angus,  warming  to  his 
theme  like  his  own  father  in  his  pulpit,  "if  Nature 
is  expelled  with  a  pitchfork  in  this  manner,  for  too 
long,  tamen  usque  recurret." 

"Is  that  a  fact?"  replied  Bogle  politely.  He 
always  adopted  the  line  of  least  resistance  when 
his  master  took  to  audible  rumination.  "Weel, 
I'll  hae  to  be  steppin',  sir.     I'll  pit  these  twa 


TUNING  UP  183 

blankets  oot  in  the  sun,  in  some  place  where  the 
dooks  frae  the  pond  will  no  get  dandering  ower 
them.  And  if  you'll  sorrt  your  books,  I'll  hand 
ower  the  yins  ye  dinna  require  to  the  Y.M.C.A. 
hut  ayont  the  village." 

Bogle  cherished  a  profound  admiration  for 
Lieutenant  M'Lachlan  both  as  a  scholar  and  a 
strategist,  and  absorbed  his  deliverances  with  a 
care  and  attention  which  enabled  him  to  misquote 
the  same  quite  fluently  to  his  own  associates. 
That  very  evening  he  set  forth  the  coming  plan 
of  campaign,  as  elucidated  to  him  by  his  master, 
to  a  mixed  assemblage  at  the  Estaminet  au  Clef 
des  Champs.  Some  of  the  party  were  duly  im- 
pressed; but  Mr.  Spike  Johnson,  a  resident  in 
peaceful  times  of  Stratford-atte-Bow,  the  recog- 
nised humourist  of  the  Sappers'  Field  Company 
attached  to  the  Brigade,  was  pleased  to  be  face- 
tious. 

''It  won't  be  no  good  you  Jocks  goin'  over  no 
parapet  to  attack  no  'Uns,"  he  said,  "after  what 
'appened  last  week!" 

This  dark  saying  had  the  effect  of  rousing  every 
Scottish  soldier  in  the  estaminet  to  a  state  of 
bristUng  attention. 

"And  what  was  it,"  inquired  Private  Cosh  with 
heat,  "that  happened  last  week?" 

"Why,"  replied  Mr.  Johnson,  who  had  been 
compounding  this  jest  for  some  days,  and  now 
saw  his  opportunity  to  deliver  it  with  effect  at 
short  range,  "your  trenches  got  raided  last 
Wednesday,  when  you  was  in  'em.  By  the 
Brandyburgers,  I  think  it  was." 


184  ALL  IN  IT 

The  entire  symposium  stared  at  the  jester  with 
undisguised  amazement. 

"Our  —  trenches,"  proclaimed  Private  Tosh 
with  forced  cahn,  "were  never  raided  by  no  — 
BrandyburrrgerrsI  Was  they,  Jimmie?" 

Mr.  Cosh  corroborated,  with  three  adjectives 
which  Mr.  Tosh  had  not  thought  of. 

Spike  Johnson  merely  smiled,  with  the  easy 
assurance  of  a  man  who  has  the  ace  up  his  sleeve. 

"Oh  yes,  they  was!"  he  reiterated. 

"They  werre  not!^'  shouted  half  a  dozen  voices. 

The  next  stage  of  the  discussion  requires  no 
discription.  It  terminated,  at  the  urgent  request 
of  Madame  from  behind  the  bar,  and  with  the 
assistance  of  the  Military  Pohce,  in  the  street 
outside. 

"And  now,  Spike  Johnson,"  inquired  Private 
Cosh,  breathing  heavily  but  much  refreshed, 
"can  you  tell  me  what  way  Gairmans  could  get 
intil  the  trenches  of  a  guid  Scots  regiment  withoot 
bein'  seen?'' 

"I  can,"  repUed  Mr.  Johnson  with  relish,  "and 
I  will.  They  got  in  all  right,  but  you  did  n't  see 
them,  because  they  was  disguised." 

Cosh  and  Tosh  snorted  disdainfully,  and  Priv- 
ate Nigg,  who  was  present  with  his  friend  Bun- 
cle,  inquired  — 

"What  way  was  they  disguised?" 

Like  lightning  came  the  answer  — 

"As  a  joke!  Oh,  you  Jocks." 

Cosh  and  Tosh  (who  had  already  been  warned 
by  the  Police  sergeant)  merely  glared  and  gurgled 
impotentiy.   Private  Nigg,  who,  as  already  men- 


TUNING  UP  185 

tioned,  was  slightly  wanting  in  quickness  of  per- 
ception, was  led  away  by  the  faithful  Buncle,  to 
have  the  outrage  explained  to  him  at  leisure.  It 
was  Private  Bogle  who  intervened,  and  brought 
the  intellectual  Goliath  crashing  to  the  ground. 

"Man,  Johnson,"  he  remarked,  and  shook  his 
head  mournfully,  "youse  ought  to  be  varra  care- 
ful aboot  sayin'  things  like  that  to  the  likes  of  us. 
'Deed  aye!" 

''What  for,  ole  son?"  inquired  the  jester  indul- 
gently. 

"Naithing,"  replied  Bogle  with  artistic  reti- 
cence. 

"Come  along  —  aht  with  it ! "  insisted  Johnson. 
"Cough  it  up,  duckie!" 

"Man,  man,"  cried  Bogle  with  passionate  ear- 
nestness, "dinna  gang  ower  far!" 

"What  the  'ell /or f"  inquired  Johnson,  im- 
pressed despite  himself. 

"What  for?"  Bogle's  voice  dropped  to  a 
ghostly  whisper.  "Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you, 
my  mannie,  what  would  happen  tae  the  English 
—  if  Scotland  was  tae  make  a  separate  peace?  " 

And  Mr.  Bogle  retired,  not  before  it  was  time, 
within  the  sheltering  portals  of  the  estaminet, 
where  not  less  than  seven  inarticulate  but  ap- 
preciative fellow-countrymen  offered  him  refresh- 
ment. 


FULL  CHORUS 
I 

An  Observation  Post  —  or  *'0  Pip, "-in  the  mys- 
terious patois  of  the  Buzzers  —  is  not  exactly  the 
spot  that  one  would  select  either  for  spaciousness 
or  accessibility.  It  may  be  situated  up  a  chimney 
or  up  a  tree,  or  down  a  tunnel  bored  through  a 
hill.  But  it  certainly  enables  you  to  see  something 
of  your  enemy;  and  that,  in  modern  warfare,  is  a 
very  rare  and  valuable  privilege. 

Of  late  the  scene-painter's  art  —  technically 
known  as  camouflage  —  has  raised  the  conceal- 
ment of  batteries  and  their  observation  posts  to 
the  realm  of  the  uncanny.  According  to  Major 
Wagstaffe,  you  can  now  disguise  anybody  as  any- 
thing. For  instance,  you  can  make  up  a  battery 
of  six-inch  guns  to  look  like  a  flock  of  sheep,  and 
herd  them  into  action  browsing.  Or  you  can 
despatch  a  scouting  party  across  No  Man's  Land 
dressed  up  as  pillar-boxes,  so  that  the  deluded 
Hun,  instead  of  opening  fire  with  a  machine-gun, 
will  merely  post  letters  in  them  —  valuable  let- 
ters, containing  military  secrets.  Lastly,  and  more 
important  still,  you  can  disguise  yourself  to  look 
like  nothing  at  all,  and  in  these  days  of  intensified 
artillery  fire  it  is  very  seldom  that  nothing  at  all 
is  hit. 

The  particular  0  Pip  with  which  we  are  con- 


FULL  CHORUS  187 

cerned  at  present,  however,  is  a  German  post  — 
or  was  a  fortnight  ago,  before  the  opening  of  the 
Battle  of  the  Sonime. 

For  nearly  two  years  the  British  Armies  on  the 
Western  Front  have  been  playing  for  time.  They 
have  been  sticking  their  toes  in  and  holding  their 
ground,  with  numerically  inferior  forces  and  in- 
adequate artillery  support,  against  a  nation  in 
arms  which  has  set  out,  with  forty  years  of  prepa- 
ration at  its  back,  to  sweep  the  earth.  We  have 
held  them,  and  now  der  Tag  has  come  for  us.  The 
deal  has  passed  into  our  hand  at  last.  A  fortnight 
ago,  ready  for  the  first  time  to  undertake  the 
offensive  on  a  grand  and  prolonged  scale,  —  Loos 
was  a  mere  reconnaissance  compared  with  this, 
—  the  New  British  Army  went  over  the  parapet 
shoulder  to  shoulder  with  the  most  heroic  Army 
in  the  world  —  the  Army  of  France  —  and  at- 
tacked over  a  sixteen-mile  front  in  the  Valley  of 
the  Somme. 

It  was  a  critical  day  for  the  Allies :  certainly  it 
was  a  most  critical  day  in  the  history  of  the  Brit- 
ish Army.  For  on  that  day  an  answer  had  to  be 
given  to  a  very  big  question  indeed.  Hitherto 
we  had  been  fighting  on  the  defensive  —  un- 
ready, uphill,  against  odds.  It  would  have  been 
no  particular  discredit  to  us  had  we  failed  to  hold 
our  line.  But  we  had  held  it,  and  more.  Now, 
at  last,  we  were  ready  —  as  ready  as  we  were  ever 
likely  to  be.  We  had  the  men,  the  guns,  and  the 
munitions.  We  were  in  a  position  to  engage  the 
enemy  on  equal,  and  more  than  equal,  terms. 
And  the  question  that  the  British  Empire  had  to 


188  ALL  IN  IT 

answer  in  that  day,  the  First  of  July  1916,  was 
this:  "Are  these  new  amateur  armies  of  ours, 
raised,  trained,  and  equipped  in  less  than  two 
years,  with  nothing  in  the  way  of  miUtary  tradi- 
tion to  uphold  them  —  nothing  but  the  steady 
courage  of  their  race:  are  they  a  match  for,  and 
more  than  a  match  for,  that  grim  machine-made, 
iron-bound  host  that  lies  waiting  for  them  along 
that  hne  of  Picardy  hills?  Because  if  they  are  not, 
we  cannot  win  this  war.  We  can  only  make  a 
stalemate  of  it." 

We,  looking  back  now  over  a  space  of  twelve 
months,  know  how  our  boys  answered  that  ques- 
tion. In  the  greatest  and  longest  battle  that  the 
world  had  yet  seen,  that  Army  of  city  clerks, 
Midland  farm-lads,  Lancashire  mill-hands,  Scot- 
tish miners,  and  Irish  comer-boys,  side  by  side 
with  their  great-hearted  brethren  from  Overseas, 
stormed  positions  which  had  been  held  impreg- 
nable for  two  years,  captured  seventy  thousand 
prisoners,  reclaimed  several  hundred  square  miles 
of  the  sacred  soil  of  France,  and  smashed  once  and 
for  all  the  German-fostered  fable  of  the  invinci- 
bility of  the  German  Army.  It  was  good  to  have 
lived  and  suffered  during  those  early  and  lean 
years,  if  only  to  be  present  at  their  fulfilment. 

But  at  this  moment  the  battle  was  only  begin- 
ning, and  the  bulk  of  their  astoimding  achieve- 
ment was  still  to  come.  Nevertheless,  in  the 
cautious  and  modest  estimate  of  their  Comman- 
der-in-Chief, they  had  aheady  done  something. 

After  ten  days  and  nights  of  continuous  fighting, 
said  the  first  oflicial  report,  our  troops  have  com- 


FULL  CHORUS  189 

pleted  the  methodical  capture  of  the  whole  of  the 
enemy's  first  system  of  defence  on  a  front  of  fourteen 
thousand  yards.  This  system  of  defence  consisted  of 
numerous  and  continuous  lines  of  fire  trenches, 
extending  to  depths  of  from  two  thousand  to  four 
thousand  yards,  and  included  five  strongly  fortified 
villages,  numerous  heavily  entrenched  woods,  and  a 
large  number  of  immensely  strong  redoubts.  The 
capture  of  each  of  these  trenches  represented  an 
operation  of  some  importance,  and  the  whole  of  them 
are  now  in  our  hands. 

Quite  so.  One  feels,  somehow,  that  Berlin 
would  have  got  more  out  of  such  a  theme. 

Now  let  us  get  back  to  our  0  Pip.  If  you  pe^ 
over  the  shoulder  of  Captain  Leslie,  the  gunner 
observing  officer,  as  he  directs  the  fire  of  his 
battery,  situated  some  thousands  of  yards  in 
rear,  through  the  medium  of  map,  field-glass,  and 
telephone,  you  will  obtain  an  excellent  view  of 
to-morrow's  field  of  battle.  Present  in  the  O  Pip 
are  Colonel  Kemp,  Wagstaffe,  Bobby  Little,  and 
Angus  M'Lachlan.  The  latter  had  been  included 
in  the  party  because,  to  quote  his  Commanding 
Officer,  "he  would  have  burst  into  tears  if  he  had 
been  left  out." 

Overhead  roared  British  shells  of  every  kind 
and  degree  of  unpleasantness,  for  the  ground 
in  front  was  being  "prepared"  for  the  coming 
assault.  The  undulating  landscape,  running  up 
to  a  low  ridge  on  the  skyline  four  miles  away,  was 
spouting  smoke  in  all  directions  —  sometimes 
black,  sometimes  green,  and  sometimes,  whert 


190  ALL  IN  IT 

bursting  shell  and  brick-dust  intermingled,  blood- 
red.  Beyond  the  ridge  all-conquering  British 
aeroplanes  occupied  the  firmament,  observing 
for  "mother"  and  ''granny"  and  signalUng  en- 
couragement or  reproof  to  these  ponderous  but 
sprightly  relatives  as  their  shells  hit  or  missed  the 
target. 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  Leshe  to  Colonel  Kemp's 
question,  "that  is  Longueval,  on  the  slope  oppo- 
site, with  the  road  running  through  on  the  way  to 
Flers,  over  the  skyline.  That  is  Delville  Wood  on 
its  right.  As  you  see,  the  guns  are  concentrating 
on  both  places.  That  is  Waterlot  Farm,  on  this 
side  of  the  wood  —  a  sugar  refinery.  Regular  nest 
of  machine-guns  there,  I'm  told." 

"No  doubt  we  shall  be  able  to  confirm  the 
rumoiu"  to-morrow,"  said  Colonel  Kemp  drily. 
"That  is  Bernaf ay  Wood  on  our  right,  I  suppose?  " 

"Yes,  su-.  We  hold  the  whole  of  that.  The 
pear-shaped  wood  out  beyond  it  —  it  looks  as  if 
it  were  joined  on,  but  the  two  are  quite  separate 
really  —  is  Trones  Wood.  It  has  changed  hands 
several  times.  Just  at  present  I  don't  think  we 
hold  more  than  the  near  end.  Further  away,  half- 
right,  you  can  see  Guillemont." 

"In  that  case,"  remarked  Wagstafife,  "our 
right  flank  would  appear  to  be  strongly  supported 
by  the  enemy." 

"Yes.  We  are  in  a  sort  of  right-angled  salient 
here.  We  have  the  enemy  on  om*  front  and  our 
right.  In  fact,  we  form  the  extreme  right  of  the 
attacking  front.  Our  left  is  perfectly  secure,  as 
we  now  hold  Mametz  Wood  and  Contahnaison. 


FULL  CHORUS  191 

There  they  are."  He  waved  his  glass  to  the  north- 
west. ''When  the  attack  takes  place,  I  under- 
stand that  our  Division  will  go  straight  ahead,  for 
Longueval  and  Delville  Wood,  while  the  next 
Division  makes  a  lateral  thrust  out  to  the  right, 
to  push  the  Boche  out  of  Trones  Wood  and  cover 
our  flank." 

"I  believe  that  is  so,"  said  the  Colonel. 
"Bobby,  take  a  good  look  at  the  approaches  to 
Longueval.  That  is  the  scene  of  to-morrow's 
constitutional." 

Bobby  and  Angus  obediently  scanned  the  vil- 
lage through  their  glasses.  Probably  they  did  not 
learn  much.  One  bombarded  French  village  is 
very  like  another  bombarded  French  village.  A 
cowering  assemblage  of  battered  little  houses; 
a  pitiful  little  main  street,  with  its  eviscerated 
shops  and  estaminets;  a  shattered  church-spire. 
Beyond  that,  an  enclosure  of  splintered  stumps 
that  was  once  an  orchard.  Below  all,  cellars,  rein- 
forced with  props  and  sand-bags,  and  filled  with 
machine-guns.    Voila  tout! 

Presently  the  Gunner  Captain  passed  word 
down  to  the  telephone  operator  to  order  the  bat- 
tery to  cease  fire. 

' '  Knocking  off ?  "  inquired  Wagstaffe. 

"For  the  present,  yes.  We  are  only  registering 
this  morning.  Not  all  our  batteries  are  going  at 
once,  either.  We  don't  want  Brother  Boche  to 
know  our  strength  until  we  tune  up  for  the  final 
chorus.   We  calculate  that  — " 

"There  is  a  comfortable  sense  of  decency  and 
order  about  the  way  we  fight  nowadays,"  said 


192  ALL  IN  IT 

Colonel  Kemp.  "It  is  like  working  out  a  prob- 
lem in  electrical  resistance  by  a  nice  convenient 
algebraical  formula.  Very  different  from  the  state 
of  things  last  year,  when  we  stuck  it  out  by 
employing  rule  of  thumb  and  hanging  on  by  our 
eyebrows." 

"The  only  problem  we  can't  quite  formulate  is 
the  machine-gun,"  said  LesUe.  The  Boche's  dug- 
outs here  are  thirty  feet  deep.  When  crumped  by 
oiu"  artillery  he  withdraws  his  infantry  and  leaves 
his  machine-gunners  behind,  safe  underground. 
Then,  when  our  guns  lift  and  the  attack  comes 
over,  his  machine-gunners  appear  on  the  surface, 
hoist  their  guns  after  them  with  a  sort  of  tackle 
arrangement,  and  get  to  work  on  a  prearranged 
band  of  fire.  The  infantry  can't  do  them  in  until 
No  Man's  Land  is  crossed,  and  —  well,  they  don't 
all  get  across,  that's  all!  However,  I  have  heard 
rumours — " 

"So  have  we  all,"  said  Colonel  Kemp. 

"I  forgot  to  tell  you.  Colonel,"  interposed 
Wagstaffe,  "that  I  met  young  Osborne  at  Divi- 
sional Headquarters  last  night.  You  remember, 
he  left  us  some  time  ago  to  join  the  Hush!  Hush! 
Brigade." 

"I  remember,"  said  the  Colonel. 

By  this  time  the  party,  including  the  Gun- 
ner Captain,  were  filing  along  a  communication 
trench,  lately  the  property  of  some  German  gen- 
tlemen, on  their  way  back  to  headquarters. 

"Did  he  tell  you  anything,  Wagstaffe?"  con- 
tinued Colonel  Kemp. 

"Not  much.  Apparently  the  time  of  the  H.H.B. 


FULL  CHORUS  193 

is  not  yet.  But  he  made  an  appointment  with  me 
for  this  evening  —  in  the  gloaming,  so  to  speak. 
He  is  sending  a  car.  If  all  he  says  is  true,  the 
Boche  Emma  Gee  is  booked  for  an  eye-opener  in 
a  few  weeks'  time." 

II 

That  evening  a  select  party  of  sight-seers  were 
driven  to  a  secluded  spot  behind  the  battle  line. 
Here  they  were  met  by  Master  Osborne,  obvi- 
ously inflated  with  some  important  matter. 

"I've  got  leave  from  my  CO.  to  show  you  the 
sights,  sir,"  he  announced  to  Colonel  Kemp.  ''If 
you  will  all  stand  here  and  watch  that  wood  on 
the  opposite  side  of  this  clearing,  you  may  see 
something.  We  don't  show  ourselves  much  except 
in  late  evening,  so  this  is  our  parade  hour." 

The  little  group  took  up  its  appointed  stand 
and  waited  in  the  gathering  ;dusk.  In  the  east 
the  sky  was  already  twinkling  with  intermittent 
Verey  Ughts.  All  around  the  British  guns  were 
thundering  forth  their  hymns  of  hate  —  full- 
throated  now,  for  the  hour  for  the  next  great 
assault  was  approaching. 

Wagstafife's  thoughts  went  back  to  a  certain 
soft  September  night  last  year,  when  he  and 
Blaikie  had  stood  on  the  eastern  outskirts  of 
Bethune  listening  to  a  similar  overture  —  the 
prelude  to  the  Battle  of  Loos.  But  this  overture 
was  ten  times  more  awful,  and,  from  a  material 
British  point  of  view,  ten  times  more  inspiring. 
It  would  have  thrilled  old  Blaikie's  fighting 
spirit,  thought  Wagstaffe.   But  Loos  had  taken 


194  ALL  IN  IT 

his  friend  from  him,  and  he,  Wagstaffe,  only  was 
left.  What  did  fate  hold  in  store  for  him  to-mor- 
row? he  wondered.  And  Bobby?  They  had  both 
escaped  marvellously  so  far.  Well,  better  men 
had  gone  before  them.   Perhaps  — 

Fingers  of  steel  bit  into  his  biceps  muscle,  and 
the  excited  whinny  of  Angus  M'Lachlan  besought 
him  to  look! 

Down  in  the  forest  something  stirred.  But  it  was 
not  the  note  of  a  bird,  as  the  song  would  have  us 
believe.  From  the  depths  of  the  wood  opposite 
came  a  crackling,  crunching  sound,  as  of  some 
prehistoric  beast  forcing  its  way  through  tropical 
undergrowth.  And  then,  suddenly,  out  from  the 
thinning  edge  there  loomed  a  monster  —  a  mon- 
strosity. It  did  not  glide,  it  did  not  walk.  It 
wallowed.  It  lurched,  with  now  and  then  a  labo- 
rious heave  of  its  shoulders.  It  fumbled  its  way 
over  a  low  bank  matted  with  scrub.  It  crossed  a 
ditch,  by  the  simple  expedient  of  rolling  the  ditch 
out  flat,  and  waddled  forward.  In  its  path  stood 
a  young  tree.  The  monster  arrived  at  the  tree 
and  laid  its  chin  lovingly  against  the  stem.  The 
tree  leaned  back,  crackled,  and  assumed  a  hori- 
zontal position.  In  the  middle  of  the  clearing, 
twenty  yards  farther  on,  gaped  an  enormous  shell- 
crater,  a  present  from  the  Kaiser.  Into  this  the 
creature  plunged  bUndly,  to  emerge,  panting  and 
puffing,  on  the  farther  side.  Then  it  stopped.  A 
magic  opening  appeared  in  its  stomach,  from 
which  emerged,  grinning,  a  British  subaltern  and 
his  grimy  associates. 

And  that  was  our  friends'  first  encounter  with 


FULL  CHORUS  195 

a  "Tank."  The  secret  —  unlike  most  secrets  in 
this  publicity-ridden  war  —  had  been  faithfully- 
kept;  so  far  the  Hush!  Hush!  Brigade  had  been 
little  more  than  a  legend  even  to  the  men  high  up. 
Certainly  the  onmiscient  Hun  received  the  sur- 
prise of  his  life  when,  in  the  early  mist  of  a  Sep- 
tember morning  some  weeks  later,  a  line  of  these 
selfsame  tanks  burst  for  the  first  time  upon  his 
incredulous  vision,  waddling  grotesquely  up  the 
hill  to  the  ridge  which  had  defied  the  British  in- 
fantry so  long  and  so  bloodily  —  there  to  squat 
complacently  down  on  the  top  of  the  enemy's 
machine-guns,  or  spout  destruction  from  her  own 
up  and  down  beautiful  trenches  which  had  never 
been  intended  for  capture.  In  fact.  Brother  Boche 
was  quite  plaintive  about  the  matter.  He  de- 
scribed the  employment  of  such  engines  as  wicked 
and  brutal,  and  opposed  to  the  recognised  usages 
of  warfare.  When  one  of  these  low-comedy  ve- 
hicles (named  the  Creme-de-Menthe)  ambled  down 
the  main  street  of  the  hitherto  impregnable  vil- 
lage of  Flers,  with  hysterical  British  Tommies 
slapping  her  on  the  back,  he  appealed  to  the  civ- 
ilised world  to  step  in  and  forbid  the  combination 
of  vulgarism  and  barbarity. 

''Let  us  at  least  fight  like  gentlemen,"  said  the 
Hun,  with  simple  dignity.  "Let  us  stick  to  legiti- 
mate military  devices  —  the  murder  of  women  and 
children,  and  the  emission  of  chlorine  gas.  But 
Tanks — no !  One  must  draw  the  line  somewhere ! ' ' 

But  the  ill-bred  Creme-de-Menthe  took  no  no- 
tice. None  whatever.  She  simply  went  waddling 
on  —  towards  Berlin. 


196  ALL  IN  IT 

"An  experiment,  of  course,"  commented  Col- 
onel Kemp,  as  they  returned  to  headquarters  — 
"a  fantastic  experiment.  But  I  wish  they  were 
ready  now.  I  would  give  something  to  see  one  of 
them  leading  the  way  into  action  to-morrow.  It 
might  mean  saving  the  lives  of  a  good  many  of 
my  boys." 


XI 

THE  LAST  SOLO 

It  was  dawn  on  Satm-day  morning,  and  the  sec- 
ond phase  of  the  Battle  of  the  Somme  was  more 
than  twenty-four  horn's  old.  The  programme  had 
opened  with  a  night  attack,  always  the  most  dif- 
ficult and  uncertain  of  enterprises,  especially  for 
soldiers  who  were  civilians  less  than  two  years 
ago.  But  no  undertaking  is  too  audacious  for  men 
in  whose  veins  the  wine  of  success  is  beginning  to 
throb.  And  this  undertaking,  this  hazardous  gam- 
ble, had  succeeded  all  along  the  line.  During  the 
past  day  and  night,  more  than  three  miles  of  the 
German  second  system  of  defences,  from  Bazen- 
tin  le  Petit  to  the  edge  of  Delville  Wood,  had  re- 
ceived their  new  tenants;  and  already  long  streams 
of  not  altogether  reluctant  Hun  prisoners  were 
being  escorted  to  the  rear  by  perspiring  but  cheer- 
ful gentlemen  with  fixed  bayonets. 

Meanwhile  —  in  case  such  of  the  late  occupants 
of  the  line  as  were  still  at  large  should  take  a  fancy 
to  revisit  their  previous  haunts,  working-parties 
of  infantry,  pioneers,  and  sappers  were  toiling  at 
full  pressiu'e  to  reverse  the  parapets,  run  out 
barbed  wire,  and  bestow  machine-guns  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  produce  a  continuous  lattice-work 
of  fire  along  the  front  of  the  captured  position. 

All  through  the  night  the  work  had  continued. 
As  a  result,  positions  were  now  tolerably  secure, 


198  ALL  IN  IT 

the  intrepid  "Buzzers"  had  included  the  newly- 
grafted  territory  in  the  nervous  system  of  the 
British  Expeditionary  Force,  and  Battalion  Head- 
quarters and  Supply  D6p6ts  had  moved  up  to 
their  new  positions. 

To  Colonel  Kemp  and  his  Adjutant  Cockerell, 
ensconced  in  a  dug-out  thirty  feet  deep,  furnished 
with  a  real  bed,  electric-light  fittings,  and  orna- 
ments obviously  made  in  Germany,  entered  Ma- 
jor Wagstaffe,  encrusted  with  mud,  but  as  imper- 
turbable as  ever.   He  saluted. 

"Good-morning,  sir.  You  seem  to  have  struck 
a  cushie  little  home  time." 

' '  Yes.  The  Boche  officer  harbours  no  false  mod- 
esty about  acknowledging  his  desire  for  creature 
comforts.  That  is  where  he  scores  ofif  people  like 
you  and  me,  who  pretend  we  like  sleeping  in  mud. 
Have  you  been  round  the  advanced  positions?" 

"Yes.  There  is  some  pretty  hard  fighting  going 
on  in  the  village  itself  —  the  Boche  still  holds  the 
north-west  corner  —  and  in  the  wood  on  the  right. 
'A'  Company  are  holding  a  line  of  broken-down 
cottages  on  our  right  front,  but  they  can't  make 
any  further  move  until  they  get  more  bombs.  The 
Boche  is  occupying  various  buildings  opposite, 
but  in  no  great  strength  at  present.  However,  he 
seems  to  have  plenty  of  machine-guns." 

"  I  have  sent  up  more  bombs,"  said  the  Col- 
onel.  "  What  about '  B  '  Company?  " 

"'B'  have  reached  their  objective,  and  consoli- 
dated. 'C  and  'D'  are  lying  close  up,  ready  to 
go  forward  in  support  when  required.  I  think 
*A'  could  do  with  a  little  assistance." 


THE  LAST  SOLO  199 

"I  don't  want  to  send  up  'C  and  'D ',"  replied 
the  Colonel,  ''until  the  Divisional  Reserve  ar- 
rives. The  Brigade  has  just  telephoned  through 
that  reinforcements  are  on  the  way.  When  they 
get  here,  we  can  afford  to  stuff  in  the  whole  bat- 
talion. Are  '  A '  Company  capable  of  handling  the 
situation  at  present?" 

"Yes,  I  think  so.  Little  is  directing  his  pla- 
toons from  a  convenient  cellar.  He  was  in  touch 
with  them  all  when  I  left.  But  it  is  possible  that 
the  Boche  may  make  a  rush  when  it  grows  a  bit 
lighter.  At  present  he  is  too  demoralised  to  at- 
tempt anything  beyond  intermittent  machine- 
gun  fire." 

Colonel  Kemp  turned  to  Cockerell. 

"Get  Captain  Little  on  the  telephone,"  he 
said,  "and  tell  him,  if  the  enemy  displays  any 
disposition  to  counter-attack,  to  let  me  know  at 
once."  Then  he  turned  to  Wagstaffe,  and  asked 
the  question  which  always  lurks  furtively  on  the 
tongue  of  a  commanding  officer. 

"Many  —  casualties?" 

"'A'  Company  have  caught  it  rather  badly 
crossing  the  open.  'B'  got  off  lightly.  Glen  is 
commanding  them  now :  Waddell  was  killed  lead- 
ing his  men  in  the  rush  to  the  final  objective." 

Colonel  Kemp  sighed. 

"Another  good  boy  gone  —  veteran,  rather.  I 
must  write  to  his  wife.  Fairly  newly  married, 
I  fancy?" 

"Four  months,"  said  Wagstaffe  briefly. 

"What  was  his  Christian  name,  do  you  know?" 

"Walter,  I  think,  sir,"  said  Cockerell. 


200  ALL  IN  IT 

Colonel  Kemp,  amid  the  stress  of  battle,  found 
time  to  enter  a  note  in  his  pocket-diary  to  that 
effect. 

Meanwhile,  up  in  the  line,  'A'  Company  were 
holding  on  grimly  to  what  are  usually  described 
as  ''certain  advanced  elements"  of  the  village. 

Village  fighting  is  a  confused  and  untidy  busi- 
ness, but  it  possesses  certain  redeeming  features. 
The  combatants  are  usually  so  inextricably  mixed 
up  that  the  artillery  are  compelled  to  refrain  from 
participation.  That  comes  later,  when  you  have 
cleared  the  village  of  the  enemy,  and  his  guns  are 
preparing  the  ground  for  the  inevitable  counter- 
attack. 

So  far  'A'  Company  had  done  nobly.  From  the 
moment  when  they  had  lined  up  before  Montau- 
ban  in  the  gross  darkness  preceding  yesterday's 
dawn  until  the  moment  when  Bobby  Little  led 
them  in  one  victorious  rush  into  the  outskirts  of 
the  village,  they  had  never  encountered  a  set- 
back. By  sunset  they  had  penetrated  some  way 
farther;  now  creeping  stealthily  forward  under  the 
shelter  of  a  broken  wall  to  hurl  bombs  into  the 
windows  of  an  occupied  cottage;  now  climb- 
ing precariously  to  some  commanding  position  in 
order  to  open  fire  with  a  Lewis  gun;  now  mak- 
ing a  sudden  dash  across  an  open  space.  Such 
work  offered  pecuUar  opportunities  to  small  and 
well-handled  parties  —  opportunities  of  which 
Bobby  Little's  veterans  availed  themselves  right 
readily. 

Angus  M'Lachlan,  for  instance,  accompanied 


THE  LAST  SOLO  201 

by  a  small  following  of  seasoned  experts,  had 
twice  rounded  up  parties  of  the  enemy  in  cellars, 
and  had  despatched  the  same  back  to  Headquar- 
ters with  his  compliments  and  a  promise  of  more. 
Mucklewame  and  four  men  had  bombed  their 
way  along  a  communication  trench  leading  to  one 
of  the  side  streets  of  the  village  —  a  likely  avenue 
for  a  counter-attack  —  and  having  reached  the 
end  of  the  trench,  had  built  up  a  sandbag  barri- 
cade, and  had  held  the  same  against  the  assaults 
of  hostile  bombers  until  a  Vickers  machine-gun 
had  arrived  in  charge  of  an  energetic  subaltern  of 
that  youthful  but  thriving  organisation,  the  Sui- 
cide Club,  or  Machine-Gun  Corps,  and  closed  the 
street  to  fm-ther  Teutonic  traffic. 

During  the  night  there  had  been  periods  of 
quiescence,  devoted  to  consolidation,  and  here 
and  there  to  snatches  of  uneasy  slumber.  Angus 
M'Lachlan,  fairly  in  his  element,  had  trailed  his 
enormous  length  in  and  out  of  the  back-yards  and 
brick-heaps  of  the  village,  visiting  every  point 
in  his  irregular  line,  testing  defences;  bestowing 
praise;  and  ensuring  that  every  man  had  his  share 
of  food  and  rest.  Unutterably  grimy  but  inex- 
pressibly cheerful,  he  reported  progress  to  Major 
Wagstaffe  when  that  nocturnal  rambler  visited 
him  in  the  small  hours. 

"Well,  Angus,  how  goes  it?"  inquired  Wag- 
staffe. 

''We  have  won  the  match,  sir,"  replied  Angus 
with  simple  seriousness.  ''We  are  just  playing  the 
bye  now!" 

And  with  that  he  crawled  away,  with  the 


202  ALL  IN  IT 

unnecessary  stealth  of  a  small  boy  playing  rob- 
bers, to  encourage  his  dour  paladins  to  fiu-ther 
efforts. 

"We  shall  probably  be  relieved  this  evening," 
he  explained  to  them,  "and  we  must  make  every- 
thing secure.  It  would  never  do  to  leave  our  new 
positions  untenable  by  other  troops.  They  might 
not  be  so  reliable"  —  with  a  paternal  smile  — 
"as  you!  Now,  our  right  flank  is  not  safe  yet. 
We  can  improve  the  position  very  much  if  we 
can  seciKe  that  estaminet,  standing  up  like  an 
island  among  those  ruined  houses  on  our  right 
front.  You  see  the  sign,  Aux  Boris  Fermiers,  over 
the  door.  The  trouble  is  that  a  German  machine- 
gun  is  sweeping  the  intervening  space  —  and  we 
cannot  see  the  gun!  There  it  goes  again.  See  the 
brick-dust  fly!  Keep  down!  They  are  firing 
mainly  across  our  front,  but  a  stray  bullet  may 
come  this  way." 

The  platoon  crouched  low  behind  their  impro- 
vised rampart  of  brick  rubble,  while  machine-gun 
bullets  swept  low,  with  misleading  claquement, 
along  the  space  in  front  of  them,  from  some  hid- 
den position  on  their  right.  Presently  the  firing 
stopped.  Brother  Boche  was  merely  "loosing  off 
a  belt,"  as  a  precautionary  measure,  at  commend- 
ably  regular  intervals. 

"I  cannot  locate  that  gun,"  said  Angus  impa- 
tiently.  "Can  you.  Corporal  M'Snape?" 

"It  is  not  in  the  estamint  itself,  sirr,"  replied 
M'Snape.  ("Estamint"  is  as  near  as  our  rank 
and  file  ever  get  to  estaminet.)  "It  seems  to  be 
mounted  some  place  higher  up  the  street.  I  doubt 


THE  LAST  SOLO  203 

they  cannot  see  us  themselves  —  only  the  ground 
in  front  of  us." 

"If  we  could  reach  the  estaminet  itself,"  said 
Angus  thoughtfully,  "we  could  get  a  more  ex- 
tended view.  Sergeant  Mucklewame,  select  ten 
men,  including  three  bombers,  and  follow  me.  I 
am  going  to  find  a  jumping-ofif  place.  The  Lewis 
gun  too." 

Presently  the  little  party  were  crouching  round 
their  officer  in  a  sheltered  position  on  the  right 
of  the  line  —  which  for  the  moment  appeared  to 
be  "in  the  air."  Except  for  the  intermittent 
streams  of  machine-gun  fire,  and  an  occasional 
shrapnel-burst  overhead,  all  was  quiet.  The  ene- 
my's counter-attack  was  not  yet  ready. 
'  "Now  listen  carefully,"  said  Angus,  who  had 
just  finished  scribbling  a  despatch.  "First  of  all, 
you.  Bogle,  take  this  message  to  the  telephone, 
and  get  it  sent  to  Company  Headquarters.  Now 
you  others.  We  will  wait  till  that  machine-gun 
has  fired  another  belt.  Then,  the  moment  it  has 
finished,  while  they  are  getting  out  the  next  belt, 
I  wUl  dash  across  to  the  estaminet  over  there. 
M'Snape,  you  will  come  with  me,  but  no  one  else 
—  yet.  If  the  estaminet  seems  capable  of  being 
held,  I  will  signal  to  you.  Sergeant  Mucklewame, 
and  you  will  send  your  party  across,  in  drib- 
lets, not  forgetting  the  Lewis  gun.  By  that  time 
I  may  have  located  the  German  machine-gun, 
so  we  should  be  able  to  knock  it  out  with  the 
Lewis." 

Further  speech  was  cut  short  by  a  punctual 
fantasia  from  the  gun  in  question.    Angus  and 


204  ALL  IN  IT 

M'Snape  crouched  behind  the  shattered  wall, 
awaitmg  their  chance.   The  firing  ceased. 

"Now!"  whispered  Angus. 

Next  moment  officer  and  corporal  were  flying 
across  the  open,  and  before  the  mechanical  Boche 
gunner  could  jerk  the  new  belt  into  position,  both 
had  found  sanctuary  within  the  open  doorway  of 
the  half-ruined  estaminet. 

Nay,  more  than  both;  for  as  the  panting  pair 
flung  themselves  into  shelter,  a  third  figure,  short 
and  stout,  in  an  ill-fitting  kilt,  tumbled  heavily 
through  the  doorway  after  them.  Simultaneously 
a  stream  of  machine-gun  bullets  went  storming 
past. 

"Just  in  time!"  observed  Angus,  well  pleased. 
"Bogle,  what  are  you  doing  here?" 

"I  was  given  tae  unnerstand,  sirr,"  replied 
Mr.  Bogle  calmly,  "when  I  jined  the  regiment, 
that  in  action  an  officer's  servant  stands  by  his 
officer." 

"That  is  true,"  conceded  Angus;  "but  you 
had  no  right  to  follow  me  against  orders.  Did 
you  not  hear  me  say  that  no  one  but  Corporal 
M'Snape  was  to  come?" 

"No,  sirr.  I  doubt  I  was  away  at  the  'phone." 

"Well,  now  you  are  here,  wait  inside  this  door- 
way, where  you  can  see  Sergeant  Mucklewame's 
party,  and  look  out  for  signals.  M'Snape,  let  us 
find  that  machine-gun." 

The  pair  made  their  way  to  the  hitherto 
bhnd  side  of  the  building,  and  cautiously  peeped 
through  a  much-perforated  shutter  in  the  living- 
room. 


THE  LAST  SOLO  205 

"Do  you  see  it,  sirr?"  inquired  M'Snape 
eagerly. 

Angus  chuckled. 

"See  it?  Fine!  It  is  right  in  the  open,  in  the 
middle  of  the  street.   Look!" 

He  relinquished  his  peep-hole.  The  German 
machine-gun  was  mounted  in  the  street  itself, 
behind  an  improvised  barrier  of  bricks  and  sand- 
bags. It  was  less  than  a  hundred  yards  away, 
sited  in  a  position  which,  though  screened  from 
the  view  of  Angus's  platoon  farther  down,  en- 
abled it  to  sweep  all  the  ground  in  front  of  the 
position.  This  it  was  now  doing  with  great  inten- 
sity, for  the  brief  public  appearance  of  Angus  and 
M'Snape  had  effectually  converted  intermittent 
into  continuous  fire. 

"We  must  get  the  Lewis  gun  over  at  once," 
muttered  Angus.  "It  can  knock  that  breastwork 
to  pieces." 

He  crossed  the  house  again,  to  see  if  any  of 
Mucklewame's  men  had  arrived. 

They  had  not.  The  man  with  the  Lewis  gun 
was  lying  dead  halfway  across  the  street,  with  his 
precious  weapon  on  the  ground  beside  him.  Two 
other  men,  both  wounded,  were  crawling  back 
whence  they  came,  taking  what  cover  they  could 
from  the  storm  of  bullets  which  whizzed  a  few 
inches  over  their  flinching  bodies. 

Angus  hastily  semaphored  to  Mucklewame  to 
hold  his  men  in  check  for  the  present.  Then  he 
returned  to  the  other  side  of  the  house. 

"How  many  men  are  serving  that  gun?"  he 
said  to  M'Snape.   "Can  you  see?" 


206  ALL  IN  IT 

"Only  two,  sirr,  I  think.  I  cannot  see  them, 
but  that  wee  breastwork  will  not  cover  more  than 
a  couple  of  men." 

"Mphm,"  observed  Angus  thoughtfully.  "I 
expect  they  have  been  left  behind  to  hold  on. 
Have  you  a  bomb  about  you?" 

The  admirable  M'Snape  produced  from  his 
pocket  a  Mills  grenade,  and  handed  it  to  his 
superior. 

"Just  the  one,  sirr,"  he  said. 

"Go  you,"  commanded  Angus,  his  voice  rising 
to  a  more  than  usually  Highland  inflection,  "and 
semaphore  to  Mucklewame  that  when  he  hears 
the  explosion  of  this"  —  he  pulled  out  the  safety- 
pin  of  the  grenade  and  gripped  the  grenade  itself 
in  his  enormous  paw — "followed,  probably,  by 
the  temporary  cessation  of  the  machine-gun,  he 
is  to  bring  his  men  over  here  in  a  bunch,  as  hard 
as  they  can  pelt.  Put  it  as  briefly  as  you  can,  but 
make  sure  he  understands.  He  has  a  good  signal- 
ler with  him.  Send  Bogle  to  report  when  you 
have  finished.  Now  repeat  what  I  have  said  to 
you.  .  .  .   That's  right.   Carry  on!" 

M'Snape  was  gone.  Angus,  left  alone,  pensively 
restored  the  safety-pin  to  the  grenade,  and  laid 
the  grenade  upon  the  ground  beside  him.  Then 
he  proceeded  to  write  a  brief  letter  in  his  field 
message-book.  This  he  placed  in  an  envelope 
which  he  took  from  his  breast  pocket.  The  enve- 
lope was  already  addressed  —  to  the  Reverend 
Neil  M'Lachlan,  The  Manse,  in  a  very  remote 
Highland  village.  (Angus  had  no  mother.)  He 
closed  the  envelope,  initialled  it,  and  buttoned 


THE  LAST  SOLO  207 

it  up  in  his  breast  pocket  again.  After  that  he 
took  up  his  grenade  and  proceeded  to  make  a 
further  examination  of  the  premises.  Presently 
he  found  what  he  wanted;  and  by  the  time  Bogle 
arrived  to  announce  that  Sergeant  Mucklewame 
had  signalled  "message  understood,"  his  arrange- 
ments were  complete. 

"Stay  by  this  small  hole  in  the  wall,  Bogle,"  he 
said,  "and  the  moment  the  Lewis  gun  arrives  tell 
them  to  mount  it  here  and  open  fire  on  the  enemy 
gun." 

He  left  the  room,  leaving  Bogle  alone,  to  listen 
to  the  melancholy  rustle  of  peeling  wall-paper 
within  and  the  steady  crackling  of  bullets  with- 
out. But  when,  peering  through  the  improvised 
loop-hole,  he  next  caught  sight  of  his  officer, 
Angus  had  emerged  from  the  house  by  the  cellar 
window,  and  was  creeping  with  infinite  caution 
behind  the  shelter  of  what  had  once  been  the  wall 
of  the  estamineVs  back-yard  (but  was  now  an  un- 
even bank  of  bricks,  averaging  two  feet  high), 
in  the  direction  of  the  German  machine-gun.  The 
gun,  oblivious  of  the  danger  now  threatening  its 
right  front,  continued  to  fire  steadily  and  hope- 
fully down  the  street. 

Slowly,  painfully,  Angus  crawled  on,  until  he 
found  himself  within  the  right  angle  formed  by 
the  corner  of  the  yard.  He  could  go  no  further 
without  being  seen.  Between  him  and  the  Ger- 
man gun  lay  the  cobbled  surface  of  the  street, 
offering  no  cover  whatsoever  except  one  mighty 
shell-crater,  situated  midway  between  Angus 
and  the  gun,  and  full  to  the  brim  with  rainwater. 


208  ALL  IN  IT 

A  single  peep  over  the  wall  gave  him  his  bear- 
ings. The  gun  was  too  far  away  to  be  reached  by 
a  grenade,  even  when  thrown  by  Angus  M'Lach- 
lan.  Still,  it  would  create  a  diversion.  It  was  a 
time  bomb.   He  would  — 

He  stretched  out  his  long  arm  to  its  full  extent 
behind  him,  gave  one  mighty  overarm  sweep,  and 
with  all  the  crackling  strength  of  his  mighty  sin- 
ews, hurled  the  grenade. 

It  fell  into  the  exact  centre  of  the  flooded  shell- 
crater. 

Angus  said  something  under  his  breath  which 
would  have  shocked  a  disciple  of  Kultur.  Fortu- 
nately the  two  German  gunners  did  not  hear  him. 
But  they  observed  the  splash  fifty  yards  away, 
and  it  relieved  them  from  ennui,  for  they  were 
growing  tired  of  firing  at  nothing.  They  had  not 
seen  the  grenade  thrown,  and  were  a  little  puz- 
zled as  to  the  cause  of  the  phenomenon. 

Four  seconds  later  their  curiosity  was  more 
than  satisfied.  With  a  muffled  roar,  the  sheU-hole 
suddenly  spouted  its  liquid  contents  and  other 
dSbris  straight  to  the  heavens,  startUng  them  con- 
siderably and  entirely  obscuring  their  vision. 

A  moment  later,  with  an  exultant  yell,  Angus 
M'Lachlan  was  upon  them.  He  sprang  into  their 
vision  out  of  the  descending  cascade  —  a  tower- 
ing, terrible,  kilted  figure,  bare-headed  and  Ber- 
serk mad.   He  was  barely  forty  yards  away. 

Initiative  is  not  the  forte  of  the  Teuton.  Num- 
ber One  of  the  German  gun  mechanically  tra- 
versed his  weapon  foiu*  degrees  to  the  right  and 
continued  to  press  the  thumb-piece.    Mud  and 


THE  LAST  SOLO  209 

splinters  of  brick  sprang  up  round  Angus's  feet; 
but  still  he  came  on.  He  was  not  twenty  yards 
away  now.  The  gunner,  beginning  to  boggle  be- 
tween waiting  and  bolting,  fumbled  at  his  ele- 
vating gear,  but  Angus  was  right  on  him  before 
his  thumbs  got  back  to  work.  Then  indeed  the 
gun  spoke  out  with  no  uncertain  voice,  for  per- 
haps two  seconds.  After  that  it  ceased  fire  alto- 
gether. 

Almost  simultaneously  there  came  a  trium- 
phant roar  lower  down  the  street,  as  Mucklewame 
and  his  followers  dashed  obliquely  across  into  the 
estaminet.  Mucklewame  himself  was  carrying  the 
derelict  Lewis  gun.  In  the  doorway  stood  the 
watchful  M'Snape. 

"This  way,  quick! "  he  shouted.  "We  have  the 
Gairman  gun  spotted,  and  the  officer  is  needing 
the  Lewis!" 

But  M'Snape  was  wrong.  The  Lewis  was  not 
required. 

A  few  moments  later,  in  the  face  of  brisk  snip- 
ing from  the  houses  higher  up  the  street,  James 
Bogle,  officer's  servant,  —  a  member  of  that  de- 
spised class  which,  according  to  the  Bandar-log 
at  home,  spend  the  whole  of  its  time  pressing 
its  master's  trousers  and  smoking  his  cigarettes 
somewhere  back  in  billets,  —  led  out  a  stretcher 
party  to  the  German  gun.  Number  One  had  been 
killed  by  a  shot  from  Angus's  revolver.  Num- 
ber Two  had  adopted  Hindenburg  tactics,  and 
was  no  more  to  be  seen.  Angus  himself  was 
lying,  stone  dead,  a  yard  from  the  muzzle  of 


210  ALL  IN  IT 

the  gun  which  he,  single-handed,  had  put  out  of 
action. 

His  men  carried  him  back  to  the  Estaminet  aux 
Bons  Fermiers,  with  the  German  gun,  which  was 
afterwards  employed  to  good  purpose  during  the 
desperate  days  of  attacking  and  counter-attack- 
ing which  ensued  before  the  village  was  finally 
secured.  They  laid  him  in  the  inner  room,  and 
proceeded  to  put  the  estaminet  in  a  state  of  de- 
fence —  ready  to  hold  the  same  against  all  comers 
until  such  time  as  the  relieving  Division  should 
take  over,  and  they  themselves  be  enabled,  under 
the  kindly  cloak  of  darkness,  to  carry  back  their 
beloved  officer  to  a  more  worthy  resting-place. 

In  the  left-hand  breast  pocket  of  Angus's  tunic 
they  found  his  last  letter  to  his  father.  Two  Ger- 
man machine-gun  bullets  had  passed  through  it. 
It  was  forwarded  with  a  covering  letter,  by 
Colonel  Kemp.  In  the  letter  Angus's  command- 
ing officer  informed  Neil  M'Lachlan  that  his  son 
had  been  reconomended  posthumously  for  the 
highest  honour  that  the  King  bestows  upon  his 
soldiers. 

But  for  the  moment  Mucklewame's  little  band 
had  other  work  to  occupy  them.  ShelHng  had 
reconunenced;  the  enemy  were  mustering  in 
force  behind  the  village;  and  presently  a  series  of 
counter-attacks  were  launched.  They  were  suc- 
cessfully repelled,  in  the  first  instance  by  the  re- 
mainder of  "A"  Company,  led  in  person  by 
Bobby  Little,  and,  when  the  final  struggle  came, 
by  the  Battalion  Reserve  under  Major  Wagstaffe. 


THE  LAST  SOLO  211 

And  throughout  the  whole  grun  struggle  which 
ensued,  the  Estaminet  aux  Boris  Fermiers,  ten- 
anted by  some  of  our  oldest  friends,  proved  itself 
the  head  and  corner  of  the  successful  defence. 


XII 

RECESSIONAL 
I 

Two  steamers  Ke  at  opposite  sides  of  the  dock. 
One  is  painted  a  most  austere  and  unobtrusive 
grey;  she  is  obviously  a  vessel  with  no  desire  to 
advertise  her  presence  on  the  high  seas.  In  other 
words,  a  transport.  The  other  is  dazzling  white, 
ornamented  with  a  good  deal  of  green,  supple- 
mented by  red.  She  makes  an  attractive  picture 
in  the  early  morning  sun.  Even  by  night  you 
could  not  miss  her,  for  she  goes  about  her  business 
with  her  entire  hull  outlined  in  red  Ughts,  regatta 
fashion,  with  a  great  luminous  Red  Cross  blazing 
on  either  counter.  Not  even  the  Conamander  of  a 
U-boat  could  mistake  her  for  anything  but  what 
she  is  —  a  hospital  ship. 

First,  let  us  walk  round  to  where  the  grey  ship  is 
discharging  her  cargo.  The  said  cargo  consists  of 
about  a  thousand  unwounded  German  prisoners. 

With  every  desire  to  be  generous  to  a  fallen 
foe,  it  is  quite  impossible  to  describe  them  as 
a  prepossessing  lot.  Not  one  man  walks  like  a 
soldier;  they  shamble.  Naturally,  they  are  dirty 
and  unshaven.  So  are  the  wounded  men  on  the 
white  ship:  but  their  outstanding  characteristic 
is  an  invincible  humanity.  Beneath  the  mud 
and  blood  they  are  men  —  white  men.  But  this 
strange  throng  are  grey  —  like  their  ship.    With 


RECESSIONAL  213 

their  shifty  eyes  and  curiously  shaped  heads,  they 
look  like  nothing  human.  They  move  like  over- 
driven beasts.  We  reahse  now  why  it  is  that  the 
German  Army  has  to  attack  in  mass. 

They  pass  down  the  gangway,  and  are  shep- 
hered  into  form  in  the  dock  shed  by  the  Embarka- 
tion Staff,  with  exactly  the  same  silent  briskness 
that  characterises  the  R.A.M.C,  over  the  way. 
Their  guard,  with  fixed  bayonets,  exhibit  no  more 
or  no  less  concern  over  them  than  over  half-a- 
dozen  Monday  morning  malefactors  paraded  for 
Orderly  Room.  Presently  they  will  move  off,  pos- 
sibly through  the  streets  of  the  town;  probably 
they  will  pass  by  folk  against  whose  kith  and  kin 
they  have  employed  every  dirty  trick  possible  in 
warfare.  But  there  will  be  no  demonstration: 
there  never  has  been.  As  a  nation  we  possess  a 
certain  number  of  faults,  on  which  we  like  to 
dwell.  But  we  have  one  virtue  at  least  —  we 
possess  a  certain  sense  of  proportion;  and  we  are 
not  disposed  to  make  subordinates  suffer  because 
we  cannot,  as  yet,  get  at  the  principals. 

They  make  a  good  haul.  Fifteen  German  regi- 
ments are  here  represented  —  possibly  more,  for 
some  have  torn  off  their  shoulder-straps  to  avoid 
identification.  Some  of  the  units  are  thinly  rep* 
resented;  others  more  generously.  One  famous 
Prussian  regiment  appears  to  have  thrown  its 
hand  in  to  the  extent  of  about  five  hundred. 

Still,  as  they  stand  there,  filthy,  forlorn,  and 
dazed,  one  suddenly  realises  the  extreme  appro- 
priateness of  a  certain  reference  in  the  Litany  to 
All  Prisoners  and  Captives. 


214  ALL  IN  IT 


We  turn  to  the  hospital  ship. 

Two  great  'brows/  or  covered  gangways,  con- 
nect her  with  her  native  land.  Down  these  the 
stretchers  are  beginning  to  pass,  having  been 
raised  from  below  decks  by  cunning  mechanical 
devices  which  cause  no  jar;  and  are  being  con- 
veyed into  the  cool  shade  of  the  dock-shed.  Here 
they  are  laid  in  neat  rows  upon  the  platform, 
ready  for  transfer  to  the  waiting  hospital  train. 
Everything  is  a  miracle  of  quietness  and  order. 
The  curious  public  are  afar  off,  held  aloof  by 
dock-gates.  (They  are  there  in  force  to-day, 
partly  to  cheer  the  hospital  trains  as  they  pass 
out,  partly  for  reasons  connected  with  the  grey- 
painted  ship.)  In  the  dock-shed,  organisation 
and  method  reign  supreme.  The  work  has  been 
going  on  without  intermission  for  several  days 
and  nights;  and  still  the  great  ships  come.  The 
Austurias  is  outside,  waiting  for  a  place  at  the 
dock.  The  Lanfranc  is  half-way  across  the  Eng- 
lish Channel;  and  there  are  rumours  that  the 
mighty  Britannic  ^  has  selected  this,  the  busiest 
moment  in  the  opening  fortnight  of  the  Somme 
Battle,  to  arrive  with  a  miscellaneous  and  irrele- 
vant cargo  of  sick  and  wounded  from  the  Medi- 
terranean. But  there  is  no  fuss.  The  R.A.M.C. 
Staff  Officers,  unruffled  and  cheery,  control  every- 
thing, apparently  by  a  crook  of  the  finger.  The 
stretcher-bearers  do  their  work  with  silent  aplomb. 

^  These  three  hospital  ships  were  all  subsequently  sunk  by 
German  submarines. 


RECESSIONAL  216 

The  occupants  of  the  stretchers  possess  the 
almost  universal  feature  of  a  six  days'  beard  — 
always  excepting  those  who  are  of  an  age  which  is 
not  troubled  by  such  manly  accretions.  They  lie 
very  still  —  not  with  the  stillness  of  exhaustion 
or  dejection,  but  with  the  comfortable  resignation 
of  men  who  have  made  good  and  have  suffered  in 
the  process;  but  who  now,  with  their  troubles  well 
behind  them,  are  enduring  present  discomfort  un- 
der the  sustaining  prospect  of  clean  beds,  chicken 
diet,  and  ultimate  tea-parties.  Such  as  possess 
them  are  wearing  Woodbine  stumps  upon  the 
lower  lip. 

They  are  quite  ready  to  compare  notes.  Let  us  ap- 
proach, and  hsten  to  a  heavily  bandaged  gentle- 
man who  —  so  the  label  attached  to  him  informs 
us — is  Private  Blank,  of  the  Manchesters,  suffering 
from  three  "G.S. "  machine-gun  bullet  wounds. 

*'Did  the  Fritzes  run?  Yes  —  they  run  all 
right!  The  last  lot  saved  us  trouble  by  running 
towards  us  —  with  their  'ands  up!  But  their  ma- 
chine-guns —  they  gave  us  fair  'Amlet  till  we  got 
across  No  Man's  Land.  After  that  we  used  the 
baynit,  and  they  did  n't  give  us  no  more  vexa- 
tiousness.  Where  did  we  go  in?  Oh,  near  Albert. 
Our  objective  was  Mary's  Court,  or  some  such 
place."  (It  is  evident  that  the  Battle  of  the 
Somme  is  going  to  add  some  fresh  household 
words  to  our  war  vocabulary.  'Wipers'  is  a  vet- 
eran by  this  time:  'Plugstreet,'  'Booloo,'  and 
'Armintears'  are  old  friends.  We  must  now 
make  room  for '  Monty  Ban,' '  La  Bustle,'  'Mucky 
Farm,'  'Lousy  Wood,'  and  'Martinpush.') 


216  ALL  IN  IT 

"What  were  your  prisoners  like?" 

"'Alf  clemmed,"  said  the  man  from  Man- 
chester. 

"No  rations  for  three  days,"  explained  a 
Northumberland  Fusilier  close  by.  One  of  his 
arms  was  strapped  to  his  side,  but  the  other  still 
clasped  to  his  bosom  a  German  helmet.  A  Brit- 
ish Tommy  will  cheerfully  shed  a  limb  or  two  in 
the  execution  of  his  duty,  but  not  all  the  might 
and  majesty  of  the  Royal  Army  Medical  Corps 
can  force  him  to  relinquish  a  fairly  earned  'sou- 
venir.' In  fact,  owing  to  certain  unworthy  sus- 
picions as  to  the  true  significance  of  the  initials, 
"R.A.M.C,"  he  has  been  known  to  refuse  chloro- 
form. 

"They  could  n't  get  nothing  up  to  them  for 
four  days,  on  account  of  om*  artillery  fire,"  he 
added  contentedly. 

"'Barrage,'  my  lad!" amended  a  rather  supe- 
rior person  with  a  lance-corporal's  stripe  and  a 
bandaged  foot. 

Indeed,  all  are  imanimous  in  aflSrming  that 
our  artillery  preparation  was  a  tremendous  affair. 
Listen  to  this  group  of  officers  sunning  themselves 
upon  the  upper  deck.  They  are  'walking  cases,' 
and  must  remain  on  board,  with  what  patience 
they  may,  imtil  all  the  'stretcher  cases'  have 
been  evacuated. 

"Loos  was  child's  play  to  it,"  says  one  —  a 
member  of  a  certain  immortal,  or  at  least  irre- 
pressible Division  which  has  taken  part  in  every 
outburst  of  international  unpleasantness  since  the 
Mame.  "The  final  hour  was  absolute  pandemo- 


RECESSIONAL  217 

nium.  And  when  our  new  trench-mortar  batter- 
ies got  to  work  too,  —  at  sixteen  to  the  dozen, 
—  well,  it  was  bad  enough  for  us;  but  what  it 
must  have  been  like  at  the  business  end  of  things. 
Lord  knows!  For  a  few  minutes  I  was  almost  a 
pro-Boche!" 

Other  items  of  intelligence  are  gleaned.  The 
weather  was  'rotten':  mud-caked  garments  cor- 
roborate this  statement.  The  wire,  on  the  whole, 
was  well  and  truly  cut  to  pieces  everywhere; 
though  there  were  spots  at  which  the  enemy  con- 
trived to  repair  it.  Finally,  ninety  per  cent  of  the 
casualties  during  the  assault  were  due  to  machine- 
gun  fire. 

But  the  fact  most  clearly  elicited  by  casual  con- 
versation is  this  —  that  the  more  closely  you  en- 
gage in  a  battle,  the  less  you  know  about  its  prog- 
ress. This  ship  is  full  of  officers  and  men  who 
were  in  the  thick  of  things  for  perhaps  forty-eight 
hours  on  end,  but  who  are  quite  likely  to  be  ut- 
terly ignorant  of  what  was  going  on  round  the 
next  traverse  in  the  trench  which  they  had  occu- 
pied. The  wounded  Gunners  are  able  to  give 
them  a  good  deal  of  information.  One  F.0.0.  saw 
the  French  advance. 

"It  was  wonderful  to  see  them  go  in,"  he  said. 
"Our  Batteries  were  on  the  extreme  right  of  the 
British  line,  so  we  were  actually  touching  the 
French  left  flank.  I  had  met  hundreds  of  poilus 
back  in  billets,  in  cafes,  and  the  like.  To  look  at 
them  strolling  down  a  village  street  in  their  baggy 
uniforms,  with  their  hands  in  their  pockets,  laugh- 
ing and  chatting  to  the  children,  you  would  n©var 


218  ALL  IN  IT 

have  thought  they  were  such  tigers.  I  remember 
one  big  fellow  a  few  weeks  ago,  home  on  leave  — 
permission  —  who  used  to  frisk  about  with  a  big 
umbrella  under  his  arm!  I  suppose  that  was  to 
keep  the  rain  off  his  tin  hat.  But  when  they  went 
for  Maricourt  the  other  day,  there  were  n't  many 
umbrellas  about  —  only  bayonets!  I  tell  you, 
they  were  marvels!" 

It  would  be  interesting  to  hear  the  poilu  on  his 
Allies. 

The  first  train  moves  off,  and  another  takes  its 
place.  The  long  lines  of  stretchers  are  thinning 
out  now.  There  are  perhaps  a  hundred  left. 
They  contain  men  of  all  units  —  English,  Scot- 
tish, and  Irish,  There  are  Gunners,  Sappers,  and 
Infantry.  Here  and  there  among  them  you  may 
note  bloodstained  men  in  dirty  ^ey  uniforms  — 
men  with  dull,  expressionless  faces  and  closely 
cropped  heads.  They  are  tended  with  exactly  the 
same  care  as  the  others.  Where  wounded  men 
are  concerned,  the  British  Medical  Service  is 
strictly  neutral. 

A  wounded  Corporal  of  the  R.A.M.C.  turns  his 
head  and  gazes  thoughtfully  at  one  of  those  grey 
men. 

''You  understand  EngUsh,  Fritz?"  he  en- 
quires. 

Apparently  not.  Fritz  continues  to  stare  wood- 
enly  at  the  roof  of  the  dock-shed. 

''I  should  like  to  tell  'im  a  story,  Jock,"  says 
the  Corporal  to  his  other  neighbour.  "My  job  is 
on  a  hospital  train.  'Alf-a-dozen  'Un  aeroplanes 
made  a  raid  behind  our  lines;  and  seeing  a  beauti- 


RECESSIONAL  219 

ful  Red  Cross  train  —  it  was  a  new  London  and 
North  Western  train,  chocolate  and  white,  with 
red  crosses  as  plain  as  could  be  —  well,  they  sim- 
ply could  n't  resist  such  a  target  as  that !  One  of 
their  machines  swooped  low  down  and  dropped 
his  bombs  on  us.  Luckily  he  only  got  the  rear 
coach;  but  I  happened  to  be  in  it!  D'  yer  'ear 
that,  Fritz?  " 

"I  doot  he  canna  unnerstand  onything,"  re- 
marked the  Highlander.  ''He's  fair  demoralised, 
like  the  rest.  D'  ye  ken  what  happened  tae  me? 
I  was  gaun'  back  wounded,  with  this  — "he  indi- 
cates an  arm  strapped  close  to  his  side — ''and 
there  was  six  Fritzes  came  crawlin'  oot  o'  a  dug- 
cot,  and  gave  themselves  up  tae  me  —  me,  that 
was  gaun'  back  wounded,  withoot  so  much  as  my 
j  ack-knif  e !   Demorralised  —  that '  s  it ! " 

"Did  you  'ear,"  enquired  a  Cockney  who  came 
next  in  the  line,  "  that  all  wounded  are  going  to 
'ave  a  nice  Uttle  gold  stripe  to  wear  —  a  stripe 
for  every  wound?" 

There  was  much  interest  at  this. 

"  That  '11  be  fine,"  observed  a  man  of  Kent, 
who  had  been  out  since  Mons,  and  been  wounded 
three  times.  "Folks  '11  know  now  that  I'm  not 
a  Derby  recruit." 

"Where  will  us  wear  it?"  enquired  a  gigantic 
Yorkshireman,  from  the  next  stretcher. 

"Wherever  you  was  'it,  lad!"  replied  the  Cock- 
ney humourist. 

"At  that  rate,"  comes  the  rueful  reply,  "I  shall 
'ave  to  stand  oop  to  show  mine!" 


220  ALL  IN  IT 

in 

But  now  R.A.M.C.  orderlies  are  at  hand,  and 
the  symposium  comes  to  an  end.  The  stretchers 
are  conveyed  one  by  one  into  the  long  open 
coaches  of  the  train,  and  each  patient  is  shpped 
sideways,  with  gentleness  and  dispatch,  into  his 
appointed  cot. 

One  saloon  is  entirely  filled  with  officers  —  the 
severe  cases  in  the  cots,  the  rest  sitting  where 
they  can.  A  newspaper  is  passed  round.  There 
are  deUghted  exclamations,  especially  from  a  sec- 
ond lieutenant  whose  features  appear  to  be  held 
together  entirely  by  strips  of  plaster.  Such  parts 
of  the  countenance  as  can  be  discerned  are  smiling 
broadly. 

"I  knew  we  were  doing  well,"  says  the  ban- 
daged one,  devouring  the  headlines;  "but  I  never 
knew  we  were  doing  as  well  as  this.  Official,  too! 
Somme  Battle  —  what?  Sorry!  I  apologise!"  as 
a  groan  ran  round  the  saloon. 

"Nevermind,"  said  an  unshaven  officer,  with 
a  twinkling  eye,  and  a  major's  tunic  wrapped 
loosely  around  him.  "I  expect  that  jest  will  be 
overworked  by  more  people  than  you  for  the  next 
few  weeks.  Does  anybody  happen  to  know  where 
this  train  is  going  to?" 

"West  of  England,  somewhere,  I  believe,"  re- 
plied a  voice. 

There  was  an  indignant  groan  from  various 
north  countrymen. 

"I  suppose  it  is  quite  impossible  to  sort  us 
all  out  at  a  time  like  this,"  remarked  a  plaintive 


RECESSIONAL  221 

Caledonian  in  an  upper  cot;  "but  I  fail  to  see 
why  the  R.A.M.C.  authorities  should  go  through 
the  mockery  of  asking  every  man  in  the  train 
where  he  wants  to  be  taken,  when  the  train 
can  obviously  only  go  to  one  place — or  perhaps 
two.  I  was  asked.  I  said  'Edinburgh';  and  the 
medical  wallah  said,  'Righto!  We'll  send  you 
to  Bath!'" 

"I  think  I  can  explain,"  remarked  the  wounded 
major.  "These  trains  usually  go  to  two  places  — 
one  half  to  Bath,  the  other,  say,  to  Exeter.  Bath 
is  nearer  to  Edinburgh  than  Exeter,  so  they  send 
you  there.  It  is  kindly  meant,  but  — " 

"I  say,"  croaked  a  voice  from  another  cot,  — 
its  owner  was  a  young  officer  who  must  just  have 
escaped  being  left  behind  at  a  Base  hospital  as 
too  dangerously  wounded  to  move,  —  "is  that  a 
newspaper  down  there?  Would  some  one  have 
a  look,  and  tell  me  if  we  have  got  Longueval  all 
right?  Longueval?  Long  —  I  got  pipped,  and 
don't  quite — " 

The  wounded  major  turned  his  head  quickly. 

"Hallo,  Bobby!"  he  observed  cheerfully. 
"That  you?  I  did  n't  notice  you  before." 

Bobby  Little's  hot  eyes  turned  slowly  on  Wag- 
staff  e,  and  he  exclaimed  feverishly:  — 

"Hallo,  Major!  Cheeroh!  Did  we  stick  to 
Longueval  all  right?  I  've  been  dreaming  about  it 
a  bit,  and — " 

"We  did,"  replied  Wagstaffe  — "thanks  to 
'A*  Company." 

Bobby  Little's  head  fell  back  on  the  pillow, 
and  he  remarked  contentedly: — 


222  ALL  IN  IT 

'"Thanks  awfully.  I  think  I  can  sleep  a  bit 
now.   So  long!  See  you  later!" 

His  eyes  closed,  and  he  sighed  happily,  as  the 
long  train  slid  out  from  the  platform. 


XIII 

"two  old  soldiers,  broken  in  the  wars" 

The  smoking-room  of  the  Britannia  Club  used  to 
be  exactly  like  the  smoking-room  of  every  other 
London  Club.  That  is  to  say,  members  lounged 
about  in  deep  chairs,  and  talked  shop,  or  scandal 
—  or  slumbered.  At  any  moment  you  might 
touch  a  convenient  bell,  and  a  waiter  would  ap- 
pear at  your  elbow,  like  a  jinnee  from  a  jar,  and 
accept  an  order  with  silent  deference.  You  could 
do  this  all  day,  and  the  jinnee  never  failed  to  hear 
and  obey. 

That  was  before  the  war.  Now,  those  idyllic 
days  are  gone.  So  is  the  waiter.  So  is  the  efficacy 
of  the  bell.  You  may  ring,  but  all  that  will  ma- 
terialise is  a  self-righteous  little  girl,  in  brass  but- 
tons, who  will  shake  her  head  reprovingly  and 
refer  you  to  certain  passages  in  the  Defence  of  the 
Realm  Act. 

Towards  the  hour  of  six-thirty,  however,  some- 
thing of  the  old  spirit  of  Liberty  asserts  itself. 
A  throng  of  members  —  chiefly  elderly  gentlemen 
in  expanded  uniforms  —  assembles  in  the  smok- 
ing-room, occupying  all  the  chairs,  and  even 
overflowing  on  to  the  tables  and  window-sills. 
They  are  not  the  discursive,  argumentative  gath- 
ering of  three  years  ago.  They  sit  silent,  rest- 
less, glancing  furtively  at  their  wrist-watches. 

The  clocks  of  London  strike  half-past  six. 
Simultaneously  the  door  of  the  smoking-room  is 


224  ALL  IN  IT 

thrown  open,  and  a  buxom  young  woman  in  cap 
and  apron  boimces  in.  She  smiles  maternally 
upon  her  fainting  flock,  and  announces :  — 

"The  half -hour's  gone.  Now  you  can  all  have 
a  drink!" 

What  would  have  happened  if  the  waiter  of  old 
had  done  this  thing,  it  is  difficult  to  imagine.  But 
the  elderly  gentlemen  greet  their  Hebe  with  a 
chorus  of  welcome,  and  clamour  for  precedence 
like  children  at  a  school-feast.  And  yet  trusting 
wives  believe  that  in  his  club,  at  least,  a  man  is 
safe  I 

Major  Wagstaffe,  D.S.O.,  having  been  absent 
from  London  upon  urgent  pubUc  afifairs  for  nearly 
three  years,  was  not  well  versed  in  the  newest  re- 
finements of  club  life.  He  had  arrived  that  morn- 
ing from  his  Convalescent  Home  in  the  west 
country,  and  had  already  experienced  a  severe 
reverse  at  the  hands  of  the  small  girl  with  brass 
buttons  on  venturing  to  order  a  sherry  and  bit- 
ters at  11.45  A.M.  Consequently,  at  the  statutory 
hour,  his  voice  was  not  uplifted  with  the  rest; 
and  he  was  served  last.  Not  least,  however;  for 
Hebe,  observing  his  empty  sleeve,  poured  out  his 
soda-water  with  her  own  fair  hands,  and  offered 
to  light  his  cigarette. 

This  scene  of  dalliance  was  interrupted  by  the 
arrival  of  Captain  Bobby  Little.  He  wore  the 
ribbon  of  ihe  Military  Cross  and  walked  with  a 
stick  —  a  not  unusual  combination  in  these  great 
days.  Wagstaffe  made  room  for  him  upon  the 
leather  sofa,  and  Hebe  supplied  his  modest  wants 
with  an  indulgent  smile. 


TWO  OLD  SOLDIERS  225 

An  autumn  and  a  winter  had  passed  since  the 
attack  on  Longueval.  From  July  until  the  De- 
cember floods,  the  great  battle  had  raged.  The 
New  Armies,  supplied  at  last  with  abundant  mu- 
nitions, a  seasoned  Staff,  and  a  concerted  plan  of 
action,  had  answered  the  question  propounded 
in  a  previous  chapter  in  no  uncertain  fashion. 
Through  Longueval  and  Delville  Wood,  where  the 
graves  of  the  Highlanders  and  South  Africans  now 
lie  thick,  through  Tiers  and  Martinpuich,  through 
Pozieres  and  Courcelette,  they  had  fought  their 
way,  till  they  had  reached  the  ridge,  with  High 
Wood  at  its  summit,  which  the  Boche,  not  alto- 
gether unreasonably,  had  regarded  as  impreg- 
nable. The  tide  had  swirled  over  the  crest,  down 
the  reverse  slope,  and  up  at  last  to  the  top  of  that 
bloodstained  knoll  of  chalk  known  as  the  Butte  de 
Warlencourt.  There  the  Hun  threw  in  his  hand. 
With  much  loud  talk  upon  the  subject  of  victori- 
ous retirements  and  Hindenburg  Lines,  he  with- 
drew himself  to  a  region  far  east  of  Bapaume; 
with  the  result  that  now  some  thousand  square 
miles  of  the  soil  of  France  had  been  restored  once 
and  for  all  to  their  rightful  owners. 

But  Bobby  and  Wagstaffe  had  not  been  there. 
All  diu-ing  the  autumn  and  winter  they  had  lain 
softly  in  hospital,  enjoying  their  first  rest  for  two 
years.  Wagstaffe  had  lost  his  left  arm  and  gained 
a  decoration.  Bobby,  in  addition  to  his  Cross,  had 
incurred  a  cracked  crown  and  a  permanently 
shortened  leg.  But  both  were  well  content.  They 
had  done  their  bit  —  and  something  over;  and 
they  had  emerged  from  the  din  of  war  with  their 


226  ALL  IN  IT 

lives,  their  health,  and  their  reason.  A  man  who 
can  achieve  that  feat  in  this  war  can  count  him- 
self fortunate. 

Now,  passed  by  a  Medical  Board  as  fit  for 
Home  Service,  they  had  said  farewell  to  their 
Convalescent  Home  and  come  to  London  to  learn 
what  fate  Olympus  held  in  store  for  them. 

"Where  have  you  been  all  day,  Bobby?"  en- 
quired Wagstaffe,  as  they  sat  down  to  dinner  an 
hour  later. 

"Down  in  Kent,"  replied  Bobby  briefly. 

"Very  well:  I  will  not  probe  the  matter.  Been 
to  the  War  Office?" 

"Yes.  I  was  there  this  morning.  I  am  to  be 
Adjutant  of  a  Cadet  school,  at  Great  Snoreham. 
What  sort  of  a  job  is  that  likely  to  be?" 

"On  the  whole,"  replied  Wagstaffe,  "a  Fairy 
Godmother  Department  job.  It  might  have  been 
very  much  worse.  You  are  thoroughly  up  to  the 
Adjutant  business,  Bobby,  and  of  course  the 
young  officers  under  you  will  be  immensely  im- 
pressed by  your  game  leg  and  bit  of  ribbon.  A 
very  sound  appointment." 

"What  are  they  going  to  do  with  you?"  asked 
Bobby  in  his  turn. 

"I  am  to  conamand  om*  Reserve  Battalion,  with 
acting  rank  of  Lieutenant-Colonel.  Think  of  that, 
my  lad!  They  have  confirmed  you  in  your  rank 
as  Captain,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes." 

"Good!  The  only  trouble  is  that  you  will  be 
stationed  in  the  South  of  England  and  I  in  the 
North  of  Scotland;  so  we  shall  not  see  quite  so 


TWO  OLD  SOLDIERS  227 

much  of  one  another  as  of  late.  However,  we  must 
get  together  occasionally,  and  split  a  tin  of  bully 
for  old  times'  sake." 

"Bully?  By  gum!"  said  Bobby  thoughtfully. 
"I  have  almost  forgotten  what  it  tastes  like. 
(Fried  sole,  please;  then  roast  lamb.)  Eight 
months  in  hospital  do  wash  out  certain  remem- 
brances." 

"But  not  all,"  said  Wagstaffe. 

"No,  not  all.  I  —  I  wonder  how  our  chaps  are 
getting  on,  over  there." 

"The  regiment?" 

"Yes.   It  is  so  hard  to  get  definite  news." 

"They  were  in  the  Arras  show.  Did  better 
than  ever;  but  —  well,  they  required  a  big  draft 
afterwards." 

"The  third  time!"  sighed  Bobby.  "Did  any 
one  write  to  you  about  it?" 

"Yes.   Who  do  you  think?" 

"Some  one  in  the  regiment?" 

"Yes." 

"I  did  n't  know  there  were  any  of  the  old  lot 
left.   Who  was  it?" 

"Mucklewame." 

"Mucklewame?  You  mean  to  say  the  Boche 
has  n't  got  him  yet?  It's  like  missing  Rheims 
Cathedral." 

' '  Yes,  they  got  him  at  Arras.  Mucklewame  is  in 
hospital.  Fortunately  his  chief  wound  is  in  the 
head,  so  he's  doing  nicely.  Here  is  his  letter." 

Bobby  took  the  pencilled  screed,  and  read :  — 


228  ALL  IN  IT 

Major  Wagstaffe, 

Sir,  —  I  take  up  my  pen  for  to  inform  you  that  I 
am  now  in  hospital  in  Glasgow,  having  become  a 
(xissuality  on  the  18th  inst. 

I  was  struck  on  the  head  by  the  nose-cap  of  a  Ger- 
man shell  {now  in  the  possession  of  my  guidvrife). 
Unfortunately  I  was  wearing  one  of  they  steel  hel- 
mets at  the  time,  with  the  result  that  I  sustained 
a  serious  scalp-wound,  also  very  bad  concussion. 
I  have  never  had  a  liking  for  they  helmets  anyway. 

The  old  regiment  did  fine  in  the  last  attack.  They 
were  specially  mentioned  in  Orders  next  day.  The 
objective  was  reached  under  heavy  fire  and  position 
consolidated  before  we  were  relieved  next  morning. 

"Good  boys!"  interpolated  Bobby  softly. 

Colonel  Carmichael,  late  of  the  Second  Battn.,  I 
think,  is  now  in  command.  A  very  nice  gentleman, 
but  we  have  all  been  missing  you  and  the  Captain. 

They  tell  me  that  I  will  be  for  home  service  after 
this.  My  head  is  doing  well,  but  the  muscules  of  my 
right  leg  is  badly  torn.  I  should  have  liked  fine  for 
to  have  stayed  out  and  come  home  with  the  other  boys 
when  we  are  through  with  Berlin. 

Having  no  more  to  say,  sir,  I  will  now  draw  to  a 
close. 

Jos.  Mucklewame, 
C.S.M, 

After  the  perusal  of  this  characteristic  Ave 
atqae  Vale!  the  two  friends  adjourned  to  the  bal- 
cony, overiooking  the  Green  Park.  Here  they  lit 
their  cigars  in  reminiscent  silence,  while  neigh- 


TWO  OLD  SOLDIERS  229 

bouring  search-lights  raked  the  horizon  for  Zep- 
pelins which  no  longer  came.  It  was  a  moment 
for  confidences. 

"Old  Mucklewame  is  like  the  rest  of  us,"  said 
Wagstaffe  at  last. 

"How?" 

"Wanting  to  go  back,  and  all  that.  I  do  too  — 
just  because  I  'm  here,  I  suppose.  A  year  ago,  out 
there,  my  chief  ambition  was  to  get  home,  with  a 
comfortable  wound  and  a  comfortable  conscience." 

"Same  here,"  admitted  Bobby. 

"It  was  the  same  with  practically  every  one," 
said  Wagstaffe.  "If  any  man  asserts  that  he 
really  enjoys  modem  warfare,  after,  say,  six 
months  of  it,  he  is  a  liar.  In  the  South  African 
show  I  can  honestly  say  I  was  perfectly  happy. 
We  were  fighting  in  open  country,  against  an 
adversary  who  was  a  gentleman;  and  although 
there  was  plenty  of  risk,  the  chances  were  that 
one  came  through  all  right.  At  any  rate,  there 
was  no  poison  gas,  and  one  did  not  see  a  whole 
platoon  blown  to  pieces,  or  buried  alive,  by  a  sin- 
gle shell.  If  Brother  Boer  took  you  prisoner,  he  did 
not  stick  you  in  the  stomach  with  a  saw-edged 
bayonet.  At  the  worst  he  pinched  your  trousers. 
But  Brother  Boche  is  a  different  proposition. 
Since  he  butted  in,  war  has  descended  in  the 
social  scale.  And  modern  scientific  developments 
have  turned  a  sporting  chance  of  being  scuppered 
into  a  mathematical  certainty.  And  yet  —  and 
yet  —  old  Mucklewame  is  right.  One  hates  to  be 
out  of  it  —  especially  at  the  finish.  When  the  regi- 
ment comes  stumping  through  London  on  its  way 


230  ALL  IN  IT 

back  to  Euston  —  next  year,  or  whenever  it 's 
going  to  be  —  with  their  ragged  pipers  leading 
the  way,  you  would  like  to  be  at  the  head  of  'A' 
Company,  Bobby,  and  I  would  give  something  to 
be  exercising  my  old  function  of  whipper-in.  Eh, 
boy?" 

"Never  mind,"  said  practical  Bobby.  "Per- 
haps we  shall  be  on  somebody's  gUttering  Staff. 
What  I  hate  to  feel  at  present  is  that  the  other 
fellows,  out  there,  have  got  to  go  on  sticking  it, 
while  we — " 

"And  by  God,"  exclaimed  Wagstaffe,  "what 
stickers  they  are  —  and  were!  Did  you  ever  see 
anything  so  splendid,  Bobby,  as  those  six-months- 
old  soldiers  of  ours  —  in  the  early  days,  I  mean, 
when  we  held  our  trenches,  week  by  week,  under 
continuous  bombardment,  and  our  gunners  be- 
hind could  only  help  us  with  four  or  five  rounds  a 
day?" 

"I  never  did,"  said  Bobby,  truthfully. 

"I  admit  to  you,"  continued  Wagstaffe,  "that 
when  I  found  myself  pitchforked  into  'K  (1)' 
at  the  outbreak  of  the  war,  instead  of  getting 
back  to  my  old  line  battalion,  I  was  a  pretty  sick 
man.  I  hated  everybody.  I  was  one  of  the  old 
school  —  or  liked  to  think  I  was  —  and  the  ways 
of  the  new  school  were  not  my  ways.  I  hated  the 
new  officers.  Some  of  them  bullied  the  men;  some 
of  them  allowed  themselves  to  be  bullied  by 
N.C.O.'s.  Some  never  gave  or  returned  salutes, 
others  went  about  saluting  everybody.  Some  came 
into  Mess  in  fancy  dress  of  their  own  design,  and 
elbowed  senior  officers  off  the  hearthrug.   I  used 


TWO  OLD  SOLDIERS  231 

to  marvel  at  the  Colonel's  patience  with  them. 
But  many  of  them  are  dead  now,  Bobby,  and 
they  nearly  all  made  good.  Then  the  men!  After 
ten  years  in  the  regular  Army  I  hated  them  all  — 
the  way  they  lounged,  the  way  they  dressed,  the 
way  they  sat,  the  way  they  spat.  I  wondered 
how  I  could  ever  go  on  living  with  them.  And 
now  —  I  find  myself  wondering  how  I  am  ever 
going  to  live  without  them.  We  shall  not  see  their 
like  again.  The  new  lot  —  present  lot  —  are 
splendid  fellows.  They  are  probably  better  sol- 
diers. Certainly  they  are  more  uniformly  trained. 
But  there  was  a  piquancy  about  our  old  scamps  in 
'K  (1)'  that  was  unique  —  priceless  —  something 
the  world  will  never  see  again." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Bobby  thoughtfully. 
"That  Cockney  regiment  which  lay  beside  us  at 
Albert  last  summer  was  a  pretty  priceless  lot. 
Do  you  remember  a  pair  of  fat  fellows  in  their 
leading  platoon?  We  called  them  Fortnum  and 
Mason!" 

"I  do  —  particularly  Fortnum.  Go  on!" 
"Well,  their  bit  of  trench  was  being  shelled  one 
day,  and  Fortnum,  who  was  in  number  one  bay 
with  five  other  men,  kept  shouting  out  to  Mason, 
who  was  round  a  traverse  and  out  of  sight,  to  en- 
quire how  he  was  getting  on.  'Are  you  all  right. 
Bill?'  'Are  you  sure  you're  all  right.  Bill?' 
'Are  you  still  all  right,  Bill?'  and  so  on.  At  last 
Bill,  getting  fed  up  with  this  unusual  solicitude, 
yelled  back:  'WTiat's  all  the  anxiety  abaht,  eh?' 
And  Fortnum  put  his  head  round  the  trav- 
erse and  explained.     'We're  getting  up  a  little 


232  ALL  IN  IT 

sweepstake  in  our  bay/  he  said,  'abaht  the  first 
casuality,  and  I've  drawn  you,  ole  son!'" 

Wagstafife  chuckled. 

"That  must  have  been  the  regiment  that  had 
the  historic  poker  party,"  he  said. 

"What  yam  was  that?" 

"I  heard  it  from  the  Brigadier  —  four  times,  to 
be  exact.  Five  men  off  duty  were  sitting  in  a  dug- 
out playing  poker.  A  gentleman  named  'Erb  had 
just  gone  to  the  limit  on  his  hand,  when  a  rifle- 
grenade  came  into  the  dug-out  from  somewhere 
and  did  him  in.  While  they  were  waiting  for  the 
stretcher-bearers,  one  of  the  other  players  picked 
up  'Erb's  hand  and  examined  it.  Then  he  laid 
it  down  again,  and  said:  'It  doesn't  matter, 
chaps.  Poor  'Erb  would  n't  a  made  it,  anyway. 
I  'ad  foiu*  queens.' " 

"Tommy  has  his  own  ideas  of  fun,  I'll  admit," 
said  Bobby.  "Do  you  remember  those  first 
trenches  of  ours  at  Festubert?  There  was  a 
dead  Frenchman  buried  in  the  parapet  —  you 
know  how  they  used  to  bury  people  in  those 
days?" 

"I  did  notice  it.  Go  on." 

"Well,  this  poor  chap's  hand  stuck  out,  just 
about  four  feet  from  the  floor  of  the  trench.  My 
dug-out  was  only  a  few  yards  away,  and  I  never 
saw  a  member  of  my  platoon  go  past  that  spot 
without  shaking  the  hand  and  saying,  'Good- 
morning,  Alphonse!'  I  had  it  built  up  with  sand- 
bags ultimately,  and  they  were  quite  annoyed!" 

"They  have  some  grisly  notions  about  life  and 
death,"  agreed  Wagstaffe, ' '  but  they  are  extraordi- 


TWO  OLD  SOLDIERS  233 

narily  kind  to  people  in  trouble,  such  as  wounded 
men,  or  prisoners.   You  can't  better  them." 

"And  now  there  are  five  millions  of  them. 
We  are  all  in  it,  at  last!" 

"We  certainly  are  —  men  and  women.  I'm 
afraid  I  had  hardly  realised  what  our  women  were 
doing  for  us.  Being  on  service  all  the  time,  one 
rather  overlooks  what  is  going  on  at  home.  But 
stopping  a  bullet  puts  one  in  the  way  of  a  good 
deal  of  inside  information  on  that  score." 

"You  mean  hospital  work,  and  so  on?" 

"Yes.  One  meets  a  lot  of  wonderful  people  that 
way!  Sisters,  and  ward-maids,  and  V.A.D.'s — " 

"I  love  all  V.A.D.'s!"  said  Bobby,  unexpect- 
edly. 

"Why,  my  youthful  Mormon?" 

"Because  they  are  the  people  who  do  all  the 
hard  work  and  get  no  limehght  —  like  —  like  — ! " 

"Like  Second  Lieutenants  —  eh?" 

"Yes,  that  is  the  idea.  They  have  a  pretty 
hard  time,  you  know,"  continued  Bobby  confiden- 
tially: "And  nothing  heroic,  either.  Giving  up  all 
the  fun  that  a  girl  is  entitled  to;  washing  dishes; 
answering  the  door-bell;  running  up  and  down- 
stairs; eating  rotten  food.    That 's  the  sort  of  — " 

"What  is  her  name?"  enquired  the  accusing 
voice  of  Major  Wagstaffe.  Then,  without  wait- 
ing to  extort  an  answer  from  the  embarrassed 
Bobby:  — 

"You  are  quite  right.  This  war  has  certainly 
brought  out  the  best  in  om-  women.  The  South 
African  War  brought  out  the  worst.  My  good- 
ness, you  should  have  seen  the  Mount  Nelson 


234  ALL  IN  IT 

Hotel  at  Capetown  in  those  days!  But  they 
have  been  wonderful  this  time  —  wonderful.  I 
love  them  all  —  the  bus-conductors,  the  ticket- 
punchers,  the  lift-girls  —  one  of  them  nearly  shot 
me  right  through  the  roof  of  Harrod's  the  other 
day  —  and  the  window-cleaners  and  the  page- 
girls  and  the  railway-portresses!  I  divide  my 
elderly  heart  among  them.  And  I  met  a  bunch 
of  munition  girls  the  other  day,  Bobby,  coming 
aome  from  work.  They  were  all  young,  and  most 
of  them  were  pretty.  Their  faces  and  hands  were 
stained  a  bright  orange-colour  with  picric  acid, 
and  will  be,  I  suppose,  until  the  Boche  is  booted 
back  into  his  stye.  In  other  words,  they  had  de- 
liberately sacrificed  their  good  looks  for  the  diu*a- 
tion  of  the  war.  That  takes  a  bit  of  doing,  I 
know,  innocent  bachelor  though  I  am.  But  bless 
you,  they  were  n't  worrying.  They  waved  their 
orange-coloured  hands  to  me,  and  pointed  to 
their  orange-coloured  faces,  and  laughed.  They 
were  proud  of  them;  they  were  doing  their  bit. 
They  nearly  made  me  cry,  Bobby.  Yes,  we  are 
all  in  it  now;  and  those  of  us  who  come  out  of  it 
are  going  to  find  this  old  island  of  ours  a  wonder- 
fully changed  place  to  live  in." 

"How?  Why?"  enquired  Bobby.  Possibly  he 
was  interested  in  Wagstaffe's  unusual  expansive- 
ness:  possibly  he  hoped  to  steer  the  conversa- 
tion away  from  the  topic  of  V.A.D.'s  —  possibly 
towards  it.   You  never  know. 

"Well,"  said  Wagstaffe,  "we  are  all  going  to 
understand  one  another  a  great  deal  better  after 
this  war." 


TWO  OLD  SOLDIERS  235 

"Who?  Labour  and  Capital,  and  so  on?" 
"'Labour  and  Capital'  is  a  meaningless  and 
misleading  expression,  Bobby.  For  instance,  our 
men  regard  people  like  you  and  me  as  Capital- 
ists; the  ordinary  Brigade  Major  regards  us  as 
Labourers,  and  pretty  common  Labourers  at 
that.  It  is  all  a  question  of  degree.  But  what  I 
mean  is  this.  You  can't  call  your  employer  a 
tyrant  and  an  extortioner  after  he  has  shared  his 
rations  with  you  and  never  spared  himself  over 
your  welfare  and  comfort  through  weary  months 
of  trench-warfare;  neither,  when  you  have  experi- 
enced a  working-man's  courage  and  cheerfulness 
and  reliability  in  the  day  of  battle,  can  you  turn 
round  and  call  him  a  loafer  and  an  agitator  in 
time  of  peace  —  can  you?  That  is  just  what  the 
Bandar-log  overlook,  when  they  jabber  about 
the  dreadful  industrial  upheaval  that  is  coming 
with  peace.  Most  of  all  have  they  overlooked  the 
fact  that  with  the  coming  of  peace  this  country 
will  be  invaded  by  several  miUion  of  the  wisest 
men  that  she  has  ever  produced  —  the  New 
British  Army.  That  Army  will  consist  of  men 
who  have  spent  three  years  in  getting  rid  of 
mutual  misapprehensions  and  assimilating  one 
another's  point  of  view  —  men  who  went  out  to 
the  war  ignorant  and  intolerant  and  insular,  and 
are  coming  back  wise  to  all  the  things  that  really 
matter.  They  will  flood  this  old  country,  and 
they  will  make  short  work  of  the  agitator,  and 
the  alarmist,  and  the  profiteer,  and  all  the  nasty 
creatures  that  merely  make  a  noise  instead  of 
doing  something,  and  who  crab  the  work  of  the 


236  ALL  IN  IT 

Army  and  Navy  —  more  especially  the  Navy  — 
because  there  is  n't  a  circus  victory  of  some  kind  in 
the  paper  every  morning.  Yes,  Bobby,  when  our 
boys  get  back,  and  begin  to  ask  the  Bandar-log 
what  they  did  in  the  Great  War  —  well,  it 's  going 
to  be  a  rotten  season  for  Bandar-log  generally!" 

There  was  silence  again.  Presently  Bobby 
spoke:  — 

"When  our  boys  get  back!  Some  of  them  are 
never  coming  back  again,  worse  luck!" 

"Still,"  said  Wagstafife,  "what  they  did  was 
worth  doing,  and  what  they  died  for  was  worth 
while.  I  think  their  one  regret  to-day  would  be 
that  they  did  not  live  to  see  their  own  fellows 
taking  the  offensive  —  the  hne  going  forward  on 
the  Somme;  the  old  tanks  waddling  over  the 
Boche  trenches;  and  the  Boche  prisoners  throw- 
ing up  their  hands  and  yowling  'Kamerad' !  And 
the  Kut  unpleasantness  cleaned  up,  and  all  the 
kinks  in  the  old  Sahent  straightened  out!  And 
Wytchaete  and  Messines!  You  remember  how 
the  two  ridges  used  to  look  down  into  om*  lines  at 
Wipers  and  Plugstreet?  And  now  we're  on  top  of 
both  of  them!  Some  of  our  friends  out  there  — 
the  friends  who  are  not  coming  back  —  would 
have  liked  to  know  about  that,  Bobby.  I  wish 
they  could,  somehow." 

"Perhaps  they  do,"  said  Bobby  simply. 

It  was  close  on  midnight.  Our  "two  old  soldiers, 
broken  in  the  wars,"  levered  themselves  stiffly  to 
their  feet,  and  prepared  to  depart. 

"Heigho!"  said  Wagstafife.  "It  is  time  for  two 


TWO  OLD  SOLDIERS  237 

old  wrecks  like  us  to  be  in  bed.  That 's  what  we 
are,  Bobby  —  wrecks,  dodderers,  has-beens!  But 
we  have  had  the  luck  to  last  longer  than  most. 
We  have  dodged  the  missiles  of  the  Boche  to  an 
extent  which  justifies  us  in  claiming  that  we  have 
followed  the  progress  of  their  war  with  a  rather 
more  than  average  degree  of  continuity.  Ws  were 
the  last  of  the  old  crowd,  too.  Kemp  has  got  his 
Brigade,  young  CockereU  has  gone  to  be  a  Staff 
Captain,  and  —  you  and  I  are  here.  Some  of  the 
others  dropped  out  far  too  soon.  Young  Lochgair, 
oldBlaikie— " 

''Waddell,  too,"  said  Bobby.  ''We  joined  the 
same  day." 

"And  Angus  M'Lachlan.  I  think  he  would 
have  made  the  finest  soldier  of  the  lot  of  us," 
added  Wagstaffe.  "You  remember  his  remark  to 
me,  that  we  only  had  the  bye  to  play  now?  He 
was  a  true  prophet :  we  are  dormy,  anyhow.  (Only 
cold  feet  at  Home  can  let  us  down  now.)  And  he 
only  saw  three  months'  service!  Still,  he  made  a 
great  exit  from  this  world,  Bobby,  and  that  is 
the  only  thing  that  matters  in  these  days.  Ha! 
H'm!  As  our  new  Allies  would  say,  I  am  begin- 
ning to  'pull  heart  stuff'  on  you.  Let  us  go  to 
bed.   Sleeping  here? " 

"Yes,  till  to-morrow.  Then  off  on  leave." 

"How  much  have  you  got?" 

"A  month.   I  say?" 

"Yes?" 

"Are  you  doing  anything  on  the  nineteenth?" 

Wagstaffe  regarded  his  young  friend  suspi- 
ciously. 


238  ALL  IN  IT 

"Is  this  a  catch  of  some  kmd?"  he  enquu-ed. 

"Oh,  no.  Will  you  be  my — "  Bobby  turned 
excessively  pink,  and  completed  his  request. 

Wagstaffe  surveyed  him  resignedly. 

"We  all  come  to  it,  I  suppose,"  he  observed. 
"Only  some  come  to  it  sooner  than  others.  Are 
you  of  age,  my  lad?  Have  yoiu*  parents  — " 

"I'm  twenty-two,"  said  Bobby  shortly. 

"Will  the  bridesmaids  be  pretty?" 

"They  are  all  peaches,"  replied  Bobby,  with 
enthusiasm.  "But  nothing  whatever,"  he  added, 
in  a  voice  of  respectful  rapture,  "compared  with 
the  bride!" 


TE[E  END 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U   .   S    .   A 


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